Death and the Chevalier

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Previous Titles by Robin Blake

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  A selection of previous titles by Robin Blake

  Novels

  FAT MAN’S SHADOW

  THE GWAILO

  The Cragg & Fidelis Mysteries

  A DARK ANATOMY

  DARK WATERS

  THE HIDDEN MAN

  aka THE SCRIVENER

  SKIN AND BONE

  ROUGH MUSIC *

  DEATH AND THE CHEVALIER *

  * available from Severn House

  DEATH AND THE CHEVALIER

  Robin Blake

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2019

  in Great Britain and 2020 in the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2020 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  eBook edition first published in 2019 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2019 by Robin Blake.

  All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  The right of Robin Blake to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8920-1 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-672-2 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0371-7 (e-book)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

  are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described

  for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are

  fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  for Jasmine Rose

  ONE

  Rumours had been afoot months before the armies mustered. They made the Jacobites of Preston breathless with anticipation. The Whigs, too, whispered it amongst themselves. A reckoning was inevitable. War loomed. He was coming.

  Who was he?

  He had many names. His real ones were Charles Edward Stuart, but you rarely heard these spoken. His sworn enemies, the Whigs, preferred to revile him as the bedpan bastard’s brat, foxcub Charlie, the girl-prince, the Knave of Jacks. They joked about his effeminacy, his cowardice, his baby face, as if no such feebleness could ever usurp the solid God-given rule of the manly German Georges. He may come, they were saying, but he’d have his little boy’s bottom horse-whipped if he does.

  His friends had more reverential names: God’s appointed, the veritable Prince of Wales, the prince in arms to bring his father to his own again, the brave Chevalier. Sometimes the sentiments were coarser: the harrow of Hanover, a boot in the arse for the bloody Brunswickers.

  But excitement and scorn were not the only responses. As the year 1745 advanced, our old ones told fearfully of what had happened twice before here at Preston, when Stuart armies had clashed with English forces and received a thrashing. These memorials of history were darkly underwritten by the repetition of prophecies and omens. The ominous words of the old-time seer Robert Nixon of Cheshire were on the lips of many Prestonians at this time. Nobody knew for sure who Nixon was, or when exactly he lived, but he had long been a favourite of the Jacobites. Then, after the disastrous 1715 rebellion, books of his pronouncements had been printed in London with the idea of proving that the Cheshire foreteller’s prophecies were actually in the Hanoverian interest: that he anticipated, for example, the destruction of the Stuarts in 1649, 1688 and 1715.

  Nixon’s pronouncements could indeed encompass contrary interpretations. First, he would give a vision of some portent, as ‘when the raven shall nest in the lion’s mouth’, which would be followed by some dire consequence, such as ‘then it shall come to pass that a Grand Liar shall invade the land and come to destruction and be dragged behind the horse’s tail’. The Jacobites hotly maintained that Grand Liar was George of Hanover. The men supporting Hanover were equally adamant it was the Pretender.

  The vicar in his sermons denounced Nixon, setting him unfavourably against Jeremiah, the false against the true prophet. The former had clothed his words in ambiguities and insinuations, while the latter spoke the truth with a voice of brass: ‘And the Lord came unto me saying, “What seest thou?” And I said, “A seething pot; and the face thereof is towards the north.”’ Prophecies of evil in evil times could not, he thundered, come forth as plainly as that.

  So deep emotions were stirring. I was made strongly aware of this myself on a certain day in August, when I went across the river to Walton-le-Dale about the business of a will. My late client, William Entwhistle, was an unmarried mercer who had died from the flux aged fifty-two a few days earlier. Entwhistle had not been rich enough to turn himself into a gentleman, yet he had done moderately well in life. More than three hundred pounds in coin had been found at his house, as well as lots of material goods, such as silver, china and cut glass, as well as the stock of damasks and velvets of his trade. As there were no living Entwhistle relatives, I had come to Walton to assess the distribution of the testator’s goods and chattels as stipulated by his will.

  There was one particular clause that required circumspect handling. ‘With regard to my objects appertaining to the cause of him that some believe to be Great Britain’s true king over the water,’ Entwhistle had written (under my advice), ‘I direct they be given as one parcel to my friend Jonathan Parkinson the candlemaker, of Church Gate in Preston, and none other.’ The wording (this being a legal document) was tricky because to adhere openly to the cause of the Pretender might be construed as advocating reb
ellion against the rule of King George. It might, in other words, be high treason, and to assist a person in any such advocacy might equally draw a charge of conspiracy. I remember drafting Entwhistle’s testament with him. I had only with great difficulty persuaded him to drop the word ‘just’ in front of ‘cause’, and to insert the words ‘him that some believe to be’.

  I knew very well what kind of objects Entwhistle’s will referred to. Passionate Jacobites like himself and Parkinson had got into the habit of expressing their loyalties through household objects embellished or inscribed with coded emblems and ambiguous quotations. Now the candlemaker’s wife, Catherine, had come over to Entwhistle’s place to help me find all such Jacobite keepsakes and artefacts in the Entwhistle house. These we assembled on his dining-room table.

  ‘Eh, Mr Cragg,’ said Catherine, as we surveyed the array of objects before us. ‘It’s a fine lot of goods, is that. And right handsome of Will Entwhistle to tip it towards us with his last wishes.’

  I pointed to a wine glass decorated with a thistle and a rose within a wreath of entwined oak leaves. Below was inscribed a single word in Latin.

  ‘Fiat,’ I said. ‘“Let it be.” Let what be, Mrs Parkinson?’

  She gave me the kind of look a schoolmistress directs at a pupil fallen down at his arithmetic.

  ‘What do you think, Mr Cragg? Not the Germans governing us for ever from London, any road.’

  I now picked up a small leather-covered case and opened it. Nestling in its velvet lining were two bronze medals. One showed an enthroned king being crowned by a descending angel. The inscription gave the date twenty-third of April 1661 – close to the beginning of King Charles II’s reign that followed the collapse of Cromwell’s power.

  ‘It’s the last King Charles’s coronation medal, is that,’ said Mrs Parkinson. ‘It was made on the day he was crowned.’

  I read out the Latin inscription curving around King Charles on his coronation throne: ‘Everso missus sucurrere seclo.’

  ‘I recognize the words, Mrs Parkinson. They mean something like “Sent to set aright the time turned upside down”, and refer, I believe, to a famous passage in the Latin poet Virgil’s poem the Georgics.’

  Suddenly, Mrs Parkinson was taken aback.

  ‘I don’t hold with any Georgics! I don’t hold with the name of George at all, as you must know. A dirty old name, is that!’

  ‘Well, you may change your mind when I tell you that the words – as far as I remember – come from a passage in the poem where Virgil speaks of the end of civil war, with everything tumbled down – or, more precisely, head over heels – and the coming of a prince who will get things the right way up again, and bring peace and plenty. That is what the young Emperor Augustus did in Rome, you know, in Virgil’s time, all those centuries ago. King Charles considered he would do the same for this land on his return in 1660, which is why they put the words on his coronation medal.’

  ‘“With the job of cleaning up the mad mess”, you mean? Ha! Right enough, Mr Cragg. That’s just what we need now when all’s said and done, and here’s another Charles that shall do the job an’ all.’

  I took out the second medal and turned it in my hand. Each side showed a young man in profile.

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘William brought it back from Rome seven or eight years ago. On this side is the Prince of Wales – I mean the true prince, Charles Edward – and on the other side is his younger brother, Prince Henry. I don’t know what the letters mean, Mr Cragg.’

  I read the inscription around the head of the older brother.

  ‘Hunc saltem everso juvenem. The words don’t make complete sense on their own. They may also be a fragment from a line of poetry. Everso is on the coronation medal too – it’s the word that means head over heels. Juvenem is “young man”. I must see if I can find it.’

  Having made a complete list of Entwhistle’s Jacobite artefacts, we packed them up in a box to be brought in due course to the Parkinsons’ home. Catherine Parkinson then walked with me back to Preston, up the hollow way that led to the end of Church Gate.

  ‘William Entwhistle was unshakeable in his beliefs,’ she said. ‘And an inspiration. There was none more zealous in the cause than him. He travelled all the way to Rome in ’thirty-eight, you know, just like a pilgrim, all because he had to set eyes on the King. What a pity that he should be carried off just as we hear this beautiful news.’

  ‘News? What news is that?’

  ‘Why, the news that the Chevalier has already landed! Haven’t you heard? He is in the Scottish Isles. He is coming, Mr Cragg. Truly, he is coming.’

  ‘Are you quite sure about this, Mrs Parkinson?’

  ‘There is no doubt, Mr Cragg,’ she said, her eyes hot with zeal. ‘So now it is fiat, after all. Fiat that the world is put back on its feet. Fiat that the foul Georges are sent packing back to their German rat-holes. Fiat, Mr Cragg!’

  It was the first time I heard this rumour of Charles Edward’s landing, but within a few days it was flying about the town like a flock of starlings. It remained a rumour, however, to be taken as an article of faith by some, and to be dourly doubted by others. One of the doubters was my clerk, Robert Furzey.

  ‘It’s all a fantasy, Mr Cragg. That lot, they shot their bolt thirty year ago. They’ll not dare try it on again. He’s not called the Young Pretender for nothing. It is all a pretence, but all so far away no one can see it.’

  Furzey was forced to change his way of thinking when news came in from much closer at hand. A merchant ship, the Ann, inbound to Liverpool from the Baltic, brought information that she’d gathered just a week earlier. To escape a storm, the captain had taken shelter in a bay of one of the western islands of Scotland, and while they rode at anchor, a badly frightened schoolmaster, a faithful Protestant, had rowed out to them in the dark of night with a piece of intelligence he wanted transmitted to London. A French frigate, he said, had set ashore a small party of conspirators including the Young Pretender, whom locals called, in Gaelic, Prionnsa Teàrlach. This gang had proceeded to a gathering place on the mainland where thousands of clansmen had flocked to his standard. This had all happened just a few days earlier.

  Despite hearing this from Liverpool, there were still many doubters. At Marcus Porter’s Mitre Tavern on Fisher Gate, Sebastian Beach the poulterer wagered his peruke against that of Paul Judd the tailor that it was all a wishful story, the like of which we had heard several times before, and which no respectable newspaper ought to print. Three days later Seb had lost his wig. The most recent printing of the London Gazette had reached us, and I was present at Porter’s when the landlord called for silence so that he could read out a short government announcement printed in the paper.

  ‘Mr Beach and Mr Judd to take notice,’ Porter roared. ‘The Gazette contains the following: “A report was received from Edinburgh that a French ship of sixteen to eighteen guns had appeared on the west coast of Scotland and had landed several persons there betwixt the isles of Mull and Skye. Amongst these there is the greatest reason to believe is the Pretender’s son.”’

  Porter lowered the paper and waited for the laughter and jeers aimed at Beach to subside. Then he picked out the thin and plainly dressed figure of Archibald MacLintock, a merchant from Glasgow who traded in salted meat and tobacco.

  ‘Archie!’ said Porter. ‘What do you make of all this? Is it to be 1715 all over again?’

  ‘Not a chance!’ said MacLintock, who was evidently no Jacobite. ‘That boy’ll no get very far south. It’s nothing like 1715 in Scotland today. Have ye heard of Fort Augustus that they’ve just finished building? There’s a chain of strongholds like that across the country that’ll keep the foolish fellow bottled up in the Highlands for years. And serve him right!’

  There was a murmuring of ‘Hear! Hear!’ from his companions at the table of Whig-minded Prestonians – who included Robert Furzey.

  ‘They’ve built many a good straight road north to south, and eas
t to west,’ the Scotchman went on. ‘So the army of His Majesty can move around as it likes and pounce like a tiger wherever the boy raises his snivelling little head. Oh, never doubt it. He’ll be mauled in the end and run howling home to his daddy and his friend the Pope, if he isn’t hanged first.’

  Suddenly, Jonathan Parkinson, at another table, jumped to his feet.

  ‘You speak of roads, MacLintock. You will allow me to address the same subject. Roads are there for marching on by anyone who chooses, not just the Elector of Hanover.’

  This choice of words called forth a hubbub of protest from MacLintock’s friends.

  ‘You must call him the King!’ they shouted. ‘Jacobite blackguard!’

  Parkinson stood his ground.

  ‘I tell you, the Prince will not be slow to march down south along those roads. He will not be hindered, and if his cause be just, he and his army’ll receive God’s good grace and sweep all before them.’

  This was too much for MacLintock, who also jumped to his feet.

  ‘His army?’ he shouted, shaking his finger at Parkinson. ‘He’s got no army! The best he can scrape together is a rabblement of savages. No discipline, no organization. They’ll be destroyed in half an hour. They can’t even speak English up there.’

  ‘They don’t speak bloody German, any road,’ growled Parkinson.

  But among the men of Preston, MacLintock’s view – a hopeful view in the eyes of the Whigs – received widespread credit over the next few days. There was no need for alarm, they were saying. The Stuart prince could skulk around the Highlands and Islands to his heart’s content, but he’d be hard put to penetrate into the civilized parts of the country, defended as they were by General Cope with his formidable force of redcoats and his line of forts and barracks. A few days later, however, when I came into my office after breakfast, I found my client Miss Colley awaiting me, and I heard the female view of the matter.