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2.09.1 - Drama Times Three
Apart from the ongoing contest between gamekeeper and poachers, that particular part of the parkland and woods around Blickling Hall had not generally been the stage upon which great dramas played. Not when there were better venues to be had, the Pyramid, Orangery, Knot garden and Lake to name but a few. However, around nightfall on the day of the Mardlingham day-trip, three significant events did occur:
The first of these had begun some miles away in the grounds of a lesser, but still aristocratic ancestral hall, when a husband had surprised his wife in a compromising position with another man. Anton Benoni, a minor aristocrat notorious for both seducing other men's wives and getting caught doing it, had immediately swapped the smooth white flesh of the wife for the pure white hide of his standby steed and made himself scarce.
The subsequent chase had culminated at the edge of the Blickling estate with a thrown cavalry sabre passing between the Count's fourth and fifth ribs thus converting his innards into an instant kebab. The Count had fallen by the wayside, the white horse, relieved of its burden had carried on regardless. The husband, after a perfunctory kick at the Count's head, had withdrawn his sabre, wiped it on the flapping tail of the Count's shirt and galloped off back the way he had come.
The second of these dramatic events, Fribbin's and his party's encounter with their ‘ghostly’ white horse, was consequent upon the first. They were in the right place at the wrong time.
The third event involved Annie the Peg, a mentally disturbed, middle-aged romany woman of wild appearance but gentle nature. Exactly what Annie thought, as she was startled awake by what sounded like a squall of banshees, and an unconscious girl clasping a well swaddled bundle rolled into the bushes, can only be imagined. Whatever it was, she grabbed the bundle, scrambled out from the shelter of her bush and ran. Under the circumstances it is not surprising that her well worn woven nettle-cloth bag of handmade clothes pegs was left abandoned.
— • —
Some way away, towards Mardlingham, Raggs and the filly are rapidly discovering that body language is fine for conveying intention, but not motivation. Both animals have made what they considered sensible decisions and both are determined to carry them out. The filly, having been released from the shafts of the stranded governess cart, has decided it is going home, a task well within its capabilities, but Raggs, Ginny's dog, has followed and caught up with it and is now determined to shepherd the horse back to the cart.
Now, every time the filly finds a way forward, the dog blocks its path and every time the horse dithers Raggs forces it back. The horse having longer legs and Raggs being somewhat nervous when faced with a set of iron-shod hooves, their curious little dance has been slowly moving in the direction of Mardlingham ever since it began. It reaches the junction with the turnpike just as Jimma, Ted and the vicar arrive there from the opposite direction:
“Oi foun'summat,” say Ted, tarn'n back ter yell a'Jimma an'th'wicar, “Thar's a rud hare, fulla norses an'dawgs.”
“Blust Bor,” say Jimma, wavi'n hiz lanthorn, “Hint thet yor filly, Wicar?”
“It certainly is,” says the vicar, breathlessly riding up from the rear, “But where are the rest of the party?”
— • —
2.09.2 - Foot in the Saddle
When Ginny had reported the disappearance of the baby in her care, Fribbins had unhooked one of the carriage lamps from the listing governess cart and rushed into the woods. In the darkness, made blacker by the stabbing beam of the lamp, the bushes and undergrowth that bordered the road became a veritable maze. Fribbins, a man with very little natural sense of direction, unless it was within the warrens of country-house attics and cellars, would easily have become lost. However, the wailing of babies and the outrage of their mothers provided a sonic-beacon he could not ignore. Ginny had followed him into the woods, blundering after him as well as she could without a lamp of her own.
All would have gone well and they might easily have recovered the missing child, had it not been for the white horse. Fribbins had come to the end of the deer-path he had been searching and swung back, only to find his way blocked by an anxious, and suddenly dazzled, Ginny. As he turned the lamp beam aside, it shone square on another, much larger face, with huge hypnotic long-lashed eyes and a long nose, foam drooling from its black lips and steam wreathing the dark pits of its nostrils. After a moment of confrontation, while Fribbins's heart-rate drops a few notches and the horse decides to stand it's ground, they both snort apologetically and blink like kitchen maids caught with their thumbs in the jam-pot:
“It's the ghost,” says Fribbins, in his half-horrified hushed voice.
“It's a bludda'orse,” says Ginny, relying on her sense of smell.
“P'raps yer rite,” says Fribbins, putting out a hand and patting the animal on its spooky nose.
“Wud'ut hitch ter th'cart?” says Ginny, “We nede a'norse.”
“Wot's rong wi'th'filly?” says Fribbins, who had failed to tie it up after releasing it from the shafts.
“Thet run orf,” says Ginny, “Oi sent Raggs arter'ut, but hint sin neetha ov'em since.”
“Thissear'orse hev a saddle,” says Fribbins, “We cud ride fer help.”
“Nut me,” say Ginny, “Oi gotta dawg ter worra abowt.”
“Then shull'ut be me?” say Fribbins, “Thas a long toime since Oi last set foot in a saddle.”
“Then thas ware yew went rong,” says Ginny, “Thus toime, mek shur yew yews yer bum!”
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2.09.3 - Follow the Dog
As soon as Raggs and the filly realised they had company, their dispute became irrelevant. The filly switched off its brain and followed its nose to the lush grass of the verge. Raggs' brain slipped a few cogs and decided duty now lie in taking the entire party back to the governess cart. A task best undertaken by persuasion:
“Wuss th'dawg dew'n?” say Ted, “Hint thet Ginny's lurcher?”
“Untidy look'n lunk,” say Jimma, staring at the dog in the beam of his lanthorn, “Iz'thet yew Raggs?”
“Gruff!” says Raggs, wagging his hindquarters and lurching in the direction he wanted them to go.
“Do you not think,” says the vicar, gathering up the filly's reigns and adding them to those of his gelding, “That it wants us to follow?”
“Wull, thet is a lurcher,” say Ted, “Mus'meen suffen, lurch'n loike thet.”
“Yew reckon we'd be betta'orf wi'a pointer?” say Jimma, with a laugh.
“Pray let us hurry,” says the vicar, “And pray there's been no accident.”
“Then folla th'dawg,” say Jimma, “Thet'unt muve 'less'n yew dew.”
— • —
It says a lot for the filly's determination, that it had progressed so far against Raggs' opposition, so it is some minutes before Jimma's lanthorn crosses beams with the remaining lamp of the governess cart. The mothers immediately fall silent as events begin to unfold around them: Raggs flings himself at Ginny's skirt and receives a strategic hug that prevents the worst excesses of the inevitable face licking; Jimma and Ted take charge of the filly and governess cart; and the vicar faces an instant court-martial from the mothers.
By the time the women have told him about the spectral white horse, the ditching of the cart, Ginny losing one of the twins and their undeserved desertion by Fribbins; Jimma and Ted have repaired the cart. The prospect of a return to normality gives the vicar a chance to calm things down and he eventually persuades them to trust themselves and their offspring to Jimma and the governess cart.
They are then in two minds about the vicar and Ted. Should they both remain in the woods to continue the search for the missing child or just Ted, and what should be done about Fribbins. Ted then discovers the bag of pegs and Annie's night-shelter under the bush, which threatens to reignite the whole debate. Jimma, with a quick glance at the vicar, flicks the reigns and sets the governess cart on a course for home.
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2.09.4 - Who'd be a Fox?
An old book or document is said to be foxed, if age has given it a crop of reddish brown spots. A man may be foxy if he is sly of disposition and crafty by nature. Generally a woman could be considered foxy if she is probably worth the chase, but in Annie's case, it should come as a warning to approach from the upwind direction, unless you have no sense of smell or you, yourself pong like a stoat.
Away from the shadows of the denser part of Blickling Woods, and with a quarter moon glowing through a thin overcast, Annie has stopped to examine her surprise parcel. Her first impression had been that it was just a bundle of shawls, then it had made tiny squeaking noises reminiscent of suckling-pig, but now that it has started squalling like a baby, she decides to unwrap it.
Annie, in her current state, may not fit well with society, rural, urban or Romany, but things have not always been that way, and she has often nursed the babies of other travelling families. Her first action is to remove the child's nappy and throw it away. The resulting freedom to kick, wakes the child's appetite and the beginning of a chuckle turns into a cry. Annie rips one of the three swaddling shawls into four strips and uses one as a nappy. She then wraps the child in the best of the shawls, and bundles everything else together for carrying. Next stop will be the nearest verge or common sporting a resident nannie-goat.
— • —
At the Police House in Blickling Road, Aylsham, a mile or two east of the Blickling Woods, Superintendent Jonathan Chambers, Sergeant William Aldis and Constable Henry Howes are taking delivery of a body. It is the corpse of Anton, Count Benoni, and has been sliced through with a sabre; exhibit one, herewith attached.
The men doing the delivering are gamekeepers from the Blickling Estate, who seem to be under the impression that the Count's death is the action of some poacher, who, they claim, will be laid by the heels in due course. The Superintendent begs to differ, on the grounds that he has yet to come across poachers wielding cavalry sabres. It is at this moment that the fraught Fribbins arrives on a white horse with some cock-and-bull story about abandoned mothers.
“Humm! Sly as a fox,” says the superintendant, glaring at Fribbins, “I think you should know, Mister, that his here corpus delicti is well known for riding a white horse.”
“Is thus yor 'orse, mister?” says the sergeant, taking hold of the bridle, "Praps yew'd care ter dismount and step inta th'lite.”
“Thar's a'naye-bee sewn orn th'saddle-clorth,” say Constable Howes.
“So thar is,” say the sergeant, “An'wuss this gret red stain orn th'orse's flank?”
“Now Mister Fribbins,” say the sergeant, “What wuzzut you sed abowt abandon'n yer muther?”
— • —
Author's Note:
Names taken directly from the 1861 Census for Aylsham, Norfolk, UK:
At the Police Station, Blickling road,
Jonathan Chambers (40), superintendent.
At the adjacent Police House:
William Aldis (47) police officer,
and his lodger, Henry Howes (24) police officer.
In the story, all words and actions of these three real characters are totally fictional. Please COMMENT if you object.
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2.09.5 - Watching the Detectives
In the minutes before Jimma had tickled-up the filly and resumed the mothers' homeward journey, the debate had been mostly concerned with what they wanted from the menfolk. The menfolk, having the power of transportation as a trump card, had not taken much notice. However, nobody had thought about Ted, Ginny and her dog Raggs, except of course themselves:
“Wotcher got thar?” say Ginny, see'n Ted clasp'n a peg-bag.
“Suff'n fergot by th'tramp,” say Ted, hold'n thet open fer har t'see.
“Gypsy pegs,” say Ginny, “Hare, shew'm t'th'dawg.”
“Hare Boy, Raggs,” say Ted, “Gitcher snoot fulla thus.”
“Snuff, snuff, phwoof,” say Raggs, sitt'n back an'look'n a'Ginny.
“GOo'orn then,” say Ginny, flapp'n ha'rarms a'th'surrownd'n shadders, “Fetch, Boy, fetch.”
“Huurf, snuff, snuf, snuf....” say Raggs, lollop'n orf frum side t'side, dew'n hiz bes'himpreshun a'a bludhund.
“Thas'ut Boy,” say Ginny, stumbl'n art'rim, “Fetch th'babba, sniff'ut owt, Boy.”
“Ted?” calls the vicar, a little concerned at finding himself alone in the dark except for a lanthorn and three nervous horses.
“Over hare,” calls Ted, frum sum plearce orf amung th'brammles.
“Fwaff, snurf, fwagh!” say Raggs, find'n th'dutty nappy ware Annie ha'chuckt'ut.
“Gawd,” say Ginny, now near enough to follow her own nose, “Duntchew dare roll in thet, yew stinky cur.”
“Hev he got th'scent?” say Ted, gett'n a whiff ov'ut hisself.
“Wull,” say Ginny, “Now we know wot way they wuz hedd'n.”
“Oi'll git th'orses,” say Ted, “Then yew kin give Raggs hiz hed.”
“Children, Please,” says the vicar, “It would be most gratifying if you could tell me what is happening.”
— • —
Meanwhile in Aylsham, Constable Henry Howes has a choice. The superintendant has sent him to fetch some transport, but it will take ages to round-up the horses for the Black-Maria van, which is the official police vehicle. On the other hand the superintendant's wife has a fine little pony and trap, with the pony kept in a loose box off the back lane. Henry, known as Harry, fills the lamps on the trap, harnesses the pony, known as Pip, places two extra dark-lanthorns under the seat and with his own bulls-eye to hand, drives the rig round in front of the police houses.
The superintendant, initially pleased at the efficiency of his constable, loses some of his enthusiasm when he sees what Harry has provided. However, there is no real reason why they should all go looking for lost mothers or the truth of Fribbin's story, so he orders Sergeant William Aldis, known as Bill, to lock Fribbins in the cells and stand guard until his return. Superintendant Jonathan Chambers, known as Sir, then sallies forth for Blickling Woods with Harry and Pip.
As by then the mothers are well on the way back to Mardlingham, and the vicar's scouting party is half a mile past Itteringham Mill following the trail of Foxy Annie; they find nothing there, other than anonymous wheel tracks in the dry ditch and several piles of horsedroppings, also anonymous. With no witnesses or evidence on his side, things are not looking good for Fribbins.
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2.09.6 - Thrashing About
The day after the return of the village charabang excursion is Sunday and the majority of the day-trippers who are safely home will soon be awakening in their own beds. Even the vicar has returned, having lost touch with Raggs, Ginny and Ted somewhere on the edge of the sprawling Walpole estate.
With church services looming, having no fresh sermon prepared is the least of the vicar's problems; not when there's a mislaid butler and an abducted baby at the head of the list. Not to mention Jarge and Stan having to be left in Cromer, and two young persons mounted on over-large horses, thundering through woods, commons and heath in pursuit of Foxy Annie:
“Ware away?” cry Ted, reigning in to listen, but hearing nothing.
“Gawn away!” cry Ginny from the other side of the brook, “Raggs? Hare Boy!”
“Raggs, Raggs...” say Ted in his shout'n voice, but th'dawg's gawn tew.
“Hev yer sin Wicar?” say Ginny, putt'n har Bay at th'stream an'thudd'n down alongside a'Ted.
“Gawn away,” say Ted, wi'a larf, “Dunt know how he kep'up s'long, in th'fust plearce.”
“Hint thet Sunday?” say Ginny, “Chuch sarvices an'orl?”
“Oi spuz thet iz,” say Ted, “Ar'we gawn?”
“Nut less thar sarv'n brekfust!” say Ginny, “Ware ar'we, enaways?”
“Clime a tree?” say Ted, “Or folla th'brook?”
“Upstream,” say Ginny, “Git'arselves a view wen th'sun rise.”
Meanwhile, Annie, having laid down a false trail has doubled back to the verge where she found the goat, and is snuggled up with the sleeping baby under the thickest part of the hedge.
In the cold whitwashed cells at Aylsham police station, Fribbins the butler has nothing to snuggle with apart from a thin grey blanket. His supper has been bread and water and he has been thoroughly thrashed at draughts (chequers) by Sergeant - call me ‘Huff'n Billy’ - Aldis. In the next cell, the corpse of Anton, Count Benoni has even less chance of a snuggle.
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All Mardlingham characters are fictional
Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©2006/2007 - All Rights Reserved.
