Johnnie Haggard sat on the bed, chewing his lip. ‘I suppose it could be done.'

‘It could and it shall. Listen. Strike while the iron is hot. You want to get over to Plowding first thing tomorrow morning, see these Bold fellows, and tell them what you plan. I'll wager they'll follow you.'

'You'll come with us as well?'

Byron smiled at him. 'I'd be no help to you, Johnnie boy. What, with my game leg? But I'll be here to make sure you have an alibi. It'll be as simple as falling off a horse.' He threw his arm around Johnnie's shoulder. 'It'll be great sport. And it'll make you a man again. And your father will never know, there's the beauty. He'll think it was a judgement from Heaven. Damn, we'll tell him it was. Oh, it will be sport.'

CHAPTER 5

THE MAGISTRATE

A twig snapped, and Johnnie Haggard shuddered. What dreadful memories that sound brought back to him, memories which had in any event been clouding his brain throughout this journey. But he made himself remain still in the saddle, although it was difficult not to shiver in the early morning chill. His horse pricked up his ears inquiringly.

'By all that's holy,' Harry Bold said.

'Maybe he's coming after Meg again,' Tim remarked.

'Aye, like a dog after bitch's scent,' Harry growled.

They carried cudgels as well as their fowling pieces, were spaced as usual, one to either side of the nervous horse.

'Weil not let him go, Pa?'

'Not 'til he's felt the weight of my stick,' Harry said. 'You'll get down, Mr. Haggard. And don't suppose we'd not drop you.'

Johnnie dismounted. Sweat was pouring from his shoulders. But he kept his teeth gritted so that the men would not see his chin tremble.

'Weil treat you better than what you let happen to Meg,' Tim said. 'You may use your fists. Against me. You let me. Pa. I'll tan his hide for him.'

'You can have first go,' Harry agreed.

Johnnie licked his lips. 'Please,' he said. 'I came here to see you. To speak with you.' To his relief his voice did not shake. 'Oh, aye?'

'What brought you, then?' Tim demanded, it's about Meg.' 'Oh, aye?'

Once again his throat and lips were dry. He licked, and swallowed, ‘I know who attacked her.' They gazed at him.

‘It's true,' he said desperately. 'Alice found out. She . . . she and I have been hunting for them these past two years, and we've finally found out.'

'Who are they, then?'

'They're not important,' Johnnie said, it's the man who paid them to attack Meg. To attack me. It's him you want.'

That makes sense. And your sister has found this out as well, has she?'

'Yes.'

'Well?'

‘It's . . . it's Father.'

Once again Bold exchanged glances with his son. His fingers tightened on the stock of his gun. if I really thought that . . .' it's true.'

Harry Bold's brows drew together. 'Haggard? Don't give me that. You're his son."

'But he knew I was courting Meg. He wanted to end it.'

'You could have been killed.'

‘I could have. But they didn't harm me.'

Bold looked at his son. Tim shrugged. 'Could be.'

'Proof,' Bold said. 'Where's your proof?'

'Would I accuse my own father if I didn't know for sure?'

'Who were the men did it?'

'Well, Peter Wring, and the gamekeepers.'

'Wring,' Harry Bold growled.

'But you don't want them,' Johnnie insisted. 'It's Father you want.'

'Your own Pa?' Tim inquired. 'You want us to kill your own Pa?'

'Kill him? I said nothing about killing him.'

'Oh, aye,' Bold remarked. 'You'd not have him killed. What do we do, write him a letter of protest? Take Squire Haggard before Magistrate? He is Magistrate, boy.'

'Listen.' Johnnie found himself panting. 'Don't you think I thought of killing him, too, when I first found out? Don't you think I hate him as much as you do? I know now that Alice was always right, that he is a horrible man. I want to hurt him. I want to avenge Meg as much as you do. But killing him isn't the answer. For one thing, you'd . . . we'd be caught. We'd be hanged. What kind of revenge would that be? Don't you see? We must do something which can't be traced back to us. We must smash his frames.'

'Smash frames?'

'And burn the mill, as well.’ Bold frowned at him. 'Bum mill?' That'll hit him where it most hurts.'

'And you don't suppose arson is a hanging offence? So is frame breaking, nowadays.'

'But he'll never suspect us,' Johnnie said urgently. 'It'll just be a case of frame breaking spreading to Derleth. He's sure it could never happen here. It'll really upset him when it does.’

'Burn mill,' Tim said, half to himself.

There's watchmen,' Harry Bold said.

'One man. And I'll tell you something else; the watchmen for the mill are Father's gamekeepers. So we'd be getting our own back on them as well.'

Harry Bold pulled his beard. 'You'll be riding with us, Mr. Haggard?'

'Of course I will. I'll set the torch with my own hands. But there must be no guns. No bloodshed.' 'Oh, aye?'

'Sticks. No one must ever suspect it wasn't just a case of frame breaking.'

Harry Bold hesitated, then nodded. 'All right, Mr. Haggard. We'll do it next time Peter Wring is watchman.'

'I said there's to be no killing,' Johnnie insisted.

'Who said anything about killing?' Harry demanded. 'But you'll not stop me blacking his eye. You find out when he'll be there, and tell us.'

Johnnie chewed his lip in indecision. But having taken them into his confidence, he had to trust them. 'All right.' 'Where'll we meet?'

'In the woods beyond mill. At one in the morning.' 'We’ll be there. Mr. Haggard. Just name the day.' ‘I’ll let you know.' Johnnie Haggard mounted his horse, rode into the trees.

There's a turn up,' Tim commented.

'Aye. Little bastard. 1 don't know what he's at, Tim, boy, but we're going to damn well make sure we gets what we want, eh? You leave it to me.’

Roger Haggard sat his horse in the trees, used his telescope to watch the turnpike and the wood beyond, and the little cottage. Carrying out a military reconnaissance, he thought. Captain Haggard, on duty. His heart pounded more painfully than at any time in Spain.

And his arm was free of the sling, today for the first time. He could move the fingers; the severed tendons must be on their way to mending. It really was a quite miraculous cure, but it carried with it the concomitant that he must soon return to the Army. Only a week ago he would have been happy to do so. Time enough to come home to Derleth for good when the war was over, when he had had a little more time to acclimatise himself to the prospect of spending the rest of his life here, of being squire. For the moment he felt like a fish out of water. His mind told him that everything Father did was right, that only by creating wealth and more wealth could England remain as strong as she needed to be; and he knew wealth could in the main only be created by wealth. But his heart told him there was something wrong with the way Father was doing it. There had always been something wrong. It was surely wrong to extract the wealth of sugar from the sweat of slaves, just as it was surely wrong to extract the wealth of cotton and the wealth of coal from the labours of people prevented from ever enjoying noonday sunlight, from playing cricket when the weather was fine, from enjoying life in proportion to the work they put into living. And the two were irreconcilable. Therefore it would be best to go away again and return when he had decided irrevocably on which side of the fence he wished to take up his position.

As if there could ever be any doubt on which side of the fence Roger Haggard would have to take up his stance.

But that had been last week. Now he wished to stay here forever. Now the thought of returning to the horror that was Spain lay across his happiness like a leaden bar.

His happiness. He had not supposed ever to use such a word again. But he was happy. He could laugh, and he could sing. And he could sit his horse here, for nearly an hour, waiting and watching, feeling the slow growth of pleasure as he watched her come out of the back door of the cottage, her chores completed, and walk, with apparent casualness, across the little vegetable garden, before stepping into the wood.

He touched his horse with his heels, and it obediently moved forward. No drumming of hooves to alarm Emma. He had been prepared to do that, had Meg decided against coming. But she was there.

Meg Bold. A small, red-headed elf, whom life and his own brother had treated abominably. How could he hope to put that right? And why, indeed, after his fine words, had he not forced Johnnie to accompany him to kneel before the girl and humbly beg her pardon. He had not really wanted to do that, had been relieved to learn that Johnnie had already left the Hall this morning, saddled up and gone no man knew where. He had leapt to horse himself, supposing that the young scoundrel might have anticipated matters and ridden over to Plowding. But he had not possessed even that much courage.

He was a strange lad. Certainly quite lacking in spunk. He would sit at dinner, thinking to himself, for the most part ignoring everything that was said around him. Roger doubted they could ever be friends. Certainly not after last night's quarrel.

He had entered the same stand of trees as Margaret. Now he drew rein, and waited. She was the country girl. She would find him, when she was ready. If she wished. A fine sweat gathered on his brow.

'Good morning, Captain Haggard.'

He dismounted, released the reins. Cavalier was too well trained a mount to wander far.

Meg came through the trees, pushing auburn hair from her forehead with her right hand, threadbare blue skirt held from the ground with her left. Her feet were bare, the toes dusty. He had a sudden agonised thought that no doubt she went barefoot in the rain and the snow as well. But they were beautiful feet.

Thank you for coming,' he said.

'It is a long ride, from Derleth,' she said seriously.

'A worthwhile one.' She was close enough for him to take her hand. She looked down at it, curiously, lying in his, but made no effort to withdraw it.

'You've news of Alice?'

'She will be well.'

‘I can't stay long,' she said. 'Ma will miss me.' 'You'd not make me ride twelve miles, just to turn round and go back again?'

She made no reply, and very gently he rested a hand on each shoulder.

'Johnnie hasn't been here? Has he?'

'Johnnie?' She stepped backwards so suddenly and so violently he had no time to release her; his hands scraped across the bodice of her gown, and she gave a little shiver. But she did not move away, and his hands once again settled on her shoulders.

'He came home yesterday,' Roger explained. 'And went out again early this morning.'

Her cheeks were pink. 'He'd not come here, Captain Haggard. Pa would kill him.'

'And what would you do in his defence?'

Her eyes flickered. 'I don't want him to come here, Captain.'

Still she had not moved, and Haggard's hands were on fire. He must either step away himself, or he must bring her into his arms. Her face was only inches away; he could feel her breath.

'What do you want, Meg?'

Her eyes came up, great blue-green pools.

'Suppose . . . suppose I were a wizard, Meg,' Roger said, 'and could grant you any three wishes. Now, there is something to think about.' He attempted a smile, but the girl's face was entirely serious. Her lower lip sucked in beneath her teeth for a moment. Tell me,' he said.

‘I . . . I'd have to think,' she said.

'Has Emma never told you about the good things in life?'

Meg shrugged; her shoulders rose and fell in his hands. 'What's good, Captain Haggard? Mama says she's happier now than she ever was at Hall.'

He had made a mistake. He was losing her. She could envisage none of the things he would have chosen, or any lady would have chosen. She was afraid of them. Therefore she would be afraid of him.

But he could not contemplate losing her. It was time to launch all his reserves, in a do or die effort.

'Well then . . . suppose I could put back the clock, Meg? Suppose I could make those men disappear from your life, make you as you were before that night.' Oh, stupid Roger Haggard. He was truly grasping at straws. And he had lost. He watched her face close. Because suppose she said yes? Of course she would say, oh can you? And what would he say then? Then you'd be back with Johnnie,' he said, in another attempt at humour.

Her eyes gloomed at him. 'He'd still be a coward, Captain Haggard.'

Haggard found his jaw slipping, and hastily closed his mouth. But was she not absolutely right? 'But you . . .'

She stepped backwards, and his hands fell to his side. She turned away from him again.

'Do you hate those men, very much?'

He could hear her inhaling, ‘I would like to see them hang,' she said, her voice quite different to anything he had heard before, ‘I would like to stand beneath them, and watch them kick their last,' she said, ‘I would like to drag on their feet.' She fell to her knees, keeping her back to him. 'And I'd like to . . .' Her voice died.

Haggard knelt beside her. That's one dream I will make come true,' he said, ‘I promise you that, Meg.'

Her head turned, and she looked at him. Roger felt the pounding in his heart increase.

'But you'd not change what happened.' he said.

Still the sidelong glance, ‘I want everything Ma had,' she said. 'I want it for me, and I want it for Ma. But I don't want it ever to end. I know Johnnie could never give me all those things. He asked me to marry him, Captain Haggard. And I said yes. Even if I knew it would never be. But he ... he didn't want to touch me. And I didn't know if I wanted him to. Now . . .' Again the little shrug. 'Now I can't marry anyone, Captain. I've had five men inside me. There's no man would take me to his bed as his wife. But that's how it should be, Captain. Isn't that so? Because no man who would marry me could give me what I want. Would you give me what I want, Captain?'

Haggard took her shoulders again, and very gently brought her towards him, half expecting her to pull away. But she came, and her eyes stayed open, seeming to grow wider and wider. They had thought her no more stable than Alice. And all the while, for two years, she had been thinking and philosophising to herself, making up her mind what she wanted . . . and what she would have, if not from him, from some other man.

Did that thought disturb him? Her face was against his now. He could kiss her eyes and her forehead and her nose and each cheek, and only slowly allow himself the luxury of her mouth. His hands slid from her shoulders down to the small of her back and then sought the gentle curve of her buttocks. She shuddered against him and moved, freeing one leg; her knuckles brushed his stomach as she lifted her skirt.

Her mouth slid from his. 'Don't hurt me, Captain Haggard,' she said.

Very gently he eased her on to her back. But he wanted to look as well as to touch, himself lifted the skirt of the gown above her knees, slowly uncovered the smoothly muscled flesh of her thighs. She lifted her body to allow him to raise the gown higher; she wore nothing underneath. Meg Bold, a tinker's daughter. His for the taking, really. So why did he tremble, and find it difficult to breathe? Why did he gently lower his head to kiss her pulsing groin, to move the dress higher with his head?

Her hands touched his cheeks, pressing him closer, and her knees came up, hugging him tighter yet. 'Love me, Captain Haggard,' she said. 'Oh, love me.'

He had to release her, kneel away from her, to take off his breeches. He thought, what an absurdity, for Roger Haggard to lie upon a bed of fallen leaves, to listen to the buzzing of the bees and the calls of the birds, when there were so many beds at his command. But this was what she wanted. This was what she must have wanted from the moment the men had left her alone —someone to do what they had done, and in the same place, only with love and with gentleness. He realised it probably did not matter who, save that he had to be a gentleman. But it did not even make him angry.

Her eyes were closed. He knelt between her legs; they parted readily enough at his touch. She breathed evenly, keeping herself under control. He understood that he was sharing the supreme moment of her life, and the most dangerous as well. If he hurt her, or even disgusted her, her life as a woman would be finished. She'd never risk this again. He kept himself back, breached her with only his tip, heard her moan and watched her head turn to and fro on the grass. Was she pretending? He knew nothing save whores, there was his trouble. And Alison had been the greatest whore of all. But Alison had not allowed him to enter.

Because if it was her greatest moment, he realised it was also the most important moment of his own life. They shared a mutual horror, arising out of the mutual desires that were their bodies. If he was exorcising her demons, she was doing no less to him.

He slipped in and in. She was warm, so warm he felt on fire, but perhaps that was his own passion. He surged to and fro, and her hands bit into his back, through his shirt. He felt the material rip and then the pain of the nails driving into his flesh. But now he was kissing her again, her eyes were open, and her hands were sliding up his back to hold his head and bring it ever closer to her. And her body was thumping against his even as he came himself.

He slid half off her, to relieve her of his weight. Her mouth followed his round, although the passion had left her fingers. She kissed his ear. 'Will you give me what I want, Captain Haggard?'

It was utterly unreasonable to be so happy. She was nothing more than a girl. A girl who had been savagely mistreated, who had withdrawn into herself, and had worked out her own salvation. That it was he she had chosen was merely chance. She meant nothing to him, could mean nothing to him. He was Roger Haggard, heir to Derleth and to Haggard's Penn and to the Haggard millions; she was a tinker's daughter. He could certainly set her up as a mistress, the way Father had set up Emma. But would that not be to start another chain of events which might well be tragic?

And yet he was happy. He wanted to sing as he rode down the track from the trees, past the ever humming mill and the clanking wheel of the mine pumps, was even pleased to see Byron sitting on the terrace, reading a book.

The best of the day to you, my lord.'

‘Indeed, Captain, it is a magnificent afternoon. I shall be sorry to leave Derleth.' He smiled. 'Although I suspect your father will not be sorry to have me go.'

Roger dismounted, tossed his reins to a waiting groom, sat beside the poet. 'He is unused to being argued with. It is a fault. I suppose equally of mine. I mean, for not arguing with him more often.'

'Why should you?' Byron asked, seriously enough. 'Do you not agree with everything he stands for?' 'Not everything.' 'You surprise me.'

'And you forget I spent near twenty years as a common soldier.'

'By God, so you did. There is an unusual situation for a future Tory landowner.'

'A confusing one, to be sure. I was interested in your thoughts on a possible reform of Parliament."

'You opposed them.'

‘Instinctively. I have been thinking about them, since. This John Russell fellow. Do you suppose I could meet him?'

Byron stared at him in surprise, it would be my very great pleasure, Captain Haggard.' He wagged his finger. 'But you want to be careful. Should the Tories even suppose you are mingling with Whig principles . . .'

The Tories can think what they like, Lord Byron. My principles are my own.'

'Spoken like a man. I promise you, I shall arrange an introduction. You have made my day. Why, here is Johnnie. And what have you been up to, my pretty boy?'

Johnnie was flushed, as usual. Roger had never met a man who blushed so readily. Or perhaps it is my presence, he thought, after our quarrel of last night. Well, he deserved it, to be sure.

'I've been for a walk,' Johnnie said. 'Down to the village.' He gazed at his brother, uneasily, Roger decided.

'Walking,' Byron said in disgust. 'Captain Roger and I have been discussing politics. You'll not believe this, boy, but we have a possible convert to Whiggism here.'

‘I'd not believe it either,' Roger said.

‘I said possible. And did you have a successful walk, Johnnie, lad?'

Once again the deep flush, ‘I think so.'

They were exchanging a message with their eyes, Roger noted. Johnnie and Byron. Two poets. The one with all the world at his feet, the other with all the world looming over him. But they were friends.

Roger got up. ‘I'm to change my clothes,' he said, and left them.

Haggard stood by the bed, looked down on the sleeping girl. Was she really sleeping? Harrowby had suggested they reduce the laudanum dosage, and according to the maids Alice was awake quite a lot of the time, without, apparently, being in great pain. But now her eyes were shut. I hate you, she had shouted. Just like Alison. Just like Emma, in the beginning. Just like Adelaide Bolton, all those myriad years ago. I hate you. His mouth twisted. Perhaps even Susan had thought, I hate you, Haggard, as she had died. But they were wrong. I am not a hateful man, he thought. I wish only to love. So I have made mistakes. There is no man can claim never to have done that. You cannot hate somebody for his mistakes.

And the odd thing was that he hated nobody. Why should he? He was Haggard.

She sighed, and moved in her sleep. A strand of auburn hair fell across her face. Very gently Haggard lifted it, moved it on to the pillow. And watched her eyes flop open.

'Do you hurt?'

She stared at him, perhaps trying to focus.

'You'll soon be well,' Haggard said. 'Harrowby says your ankle is nearly mended.' He smiled at her. ' Tis only your head we must consider.'

Still she stared at him.

He bent over her. 'Get well, Alice,' he said. 'Get well, girl. There is a lot of living you have to do. Get well.'

He kissed her on the forehead, straightened.

‘I hate you,' she whispered. 'I hate you. Leave me alone.'

Haggard met her gaze for a moment, then turned away. He glanced at the girl, sitting in the comer, pretending not to have heard. Then he stepped outside, closed the door behind him, walked slowly to his room. He never slept in the tower nowadays; it was too lonely, too remote from the rest of the house. He liked to hear the murmur of activity; even in the dead of night, he liked to hear the chiming of the clocks. The tower room was a place of memories.

'How is she?' Roger, standing at the head of the stairs.

Haggard shrugged. 'Her ankle is mended.'

'But not her mind.'

Haggard glanced at him, made no reply.

Roger walked beside him. 'She will be well, Father.'

'Aye,' Haggard agreed. 'She will be well.' He paused at the door to his room, and it was immediately opened by Simpson. ‘I’ll bid you good-night. Lord Byron leaves in the morning.'

'Yes.' Roger hesitated. He wants to say something, Haggard thought. 'I shall have to be leaving soon, as well.' He moved the fingers on his right hand, ‘I can grasp again.'

'Stuff and nonsense, boy. You'll stay here until you are truly well. At least until Alice recovers. I need you, boy. Johnnie is no help in a crisis like this. He never visits her. Where is he now? Drinking with his poet friend?'

‘I have no idea,' Roger said, ‘I think he retired early. Lord Byron is in the library, reading.'

'Reading,' Haggard said disgustedly. 'No doubt that's where he gets so many of his absurd ideas.'

'Are they absurd, Father?'

Haggard frowned. 'You'd give the vote to every Tom, Dick and Harry? You'd give the vote to Simpson here? That would be a fine way to run the country. Eh, Simpson? What would you do with the vote?'

'I don't rightly know, Mr. 'aggard.' Simpson was laying out the nightshirt and cap.

'See what I mean? People like Simpson would have to be told how to vote, and the next thing you'd have a tyranny like Bonaparte's. Don't give me stuff and nonsense like that.' He hesitated, wondering what it was Roger really wanted to discuss. But apparently he was not going to do it tonight. 'I'm for my bed.'

Roger nodded. 'Aye. Good-night, Father.'

The door was closed. Haggard allowed Simpson to undress him, drape the nightshirt over his shoulders. He lay in bed while the valet doused the candles.

'Good-night, Mr. 'aggard, sir.'

'Good-night, Simpson.'

Once again the soft click of the door. He listened to the barking of a dog, drifting up the hill from the village, to the chiming of the clock. It was eleven. On a magnificent summer's night. He had to do no more than sleep.

And think of the future. Roger's future. That was all that mattered. It was criminal that the heir to a fortune like his had to go off to fight a senseless endless war in a remote part of Europe, to risk his life, in defence of what? No French soldier was ever going to march up Derleth High Street.

My God, he thought, I am thinking like that upstart Byron. But Roger seemed to like the fellow. Or at least, he was willing to listen to him. Because he was Johnnie's friend? There was the true future, and if Roger and Johnnie could be friends, then was it secure. Why, he thought, with me dead, even Alice can be happy, again.

But that was looking too far ahead. He was not going to die. Not for a good many years. And not until Roger was finished with fighting, certainly. Haggard, he thought, and found himself smiling. It was time to shake himself. Why, he realised, he had slipped back into the same even way of life on Derleth that he had had on Haggard's Penn. Haggard's Penn. What memories that brought back. The smell of grinding, the gentle soughing of the wind in the canefields, Emma, running down the front stairs to tell him she was pregnant, with Alice.

And were there not other Emmas? He had but to look, properly. As soon as Roger returned for good, he'd find himself another Emma, and then he'd pay a visit to Barbados. That would shake them up. Why, after all these years Ferguson must suppose he owned the place by now; he was in fact due to be retired.

He slept, deeply, was awakened by a noise. He opened his eyes, discovered that it was already daylight, although very early. And someone was shouting outside his window, waking the whole house, from the buzz of sound.

Haggard got out of bed, strode to the window, looked down on

Toby Doon. Toby had lost his hat, and his white hair was flopping as he ran down the drive. 'Mr. Haggard,' he shouted. 'Mr. Haggard,' he screamed. The mill. The mill.'

'Halt there, Toby Doon.' This was Ned, emerging from his room over the stables, scratching his head. 'You'll wake squire.'

The squire.' Toby Doon fell to his knees at the foot of the steps. 'You must fetch him.'

'I am here, Doon,' Haggard called from the window. 'What's amiss?'

'The mill, Mr. Haggard. Tis burning. And Mr. Haggard, Peter Wring is dead.'

Haggard dismounted, pushed hair from his eyes. He had stuffed his nightshirt into his breeches, forgotten his hat. It was a warm morning in any event, but it was rendered hot by the gigantic glow coming from the burning building. His factory, built like a fort. Well, the walls still stood. But the door had fallen in and the dawn breeze continued to whip the flames within. The mill resembled a gigantic oven. It glowed.

There.' Roger pointed, and he saw the body of a man lying beside the stream. Peter Wring lay on his back, his shotgun beside him. Corcoran dismounted, and ran across. Roger followed more slowly, as did MacGuinness. Byron, who had also tumbled out of bed, remained standing beside Haggard.

"Shot, sir,' Corcoran said. 'At close range.'

'Blown in two, more like,' MacGuinness said.

Haggard slowly walked down the slope. He suddenly felt very old, and very tired. When had he first met Peter Wring? On the night James Middlesex had absconded. And no man could have had a more faithful servant, ever since. The face itself was almost unrecognisable. But Wring's hands were tied behind his back.

'Bound he was,' Corcoran muttered.

'Cold-blooded murder,' MacGuinness said.

'Cold-blooded execution, you mean,' Roger said. This was someone with a grudge.'

'But his piece isn't fired,' MacGuinness said. 'Now there's a strange thing.'

'He was surprised,' Roger suggested.

'Surprised? Not Peter.'

'What, then?'

MacGuinness shrugged. 'I couldn't say, sir. Save that he knew who it was.'

'And didn't know they had come to kill him,' Roger mused.

Haggard gazed at the blazing factory. The flames were beginning to die down, now. But they had spread to the mill wheel, and that was starting to disintegrate, with gigantic hisses.

'Horses,' Corcoran said. There were horses.'

'Can you track them?' Haggard asked. He was amazed at the evenness of his voice.

That I couldn't say, Mr. Haggard. I can try.'

'Then do so. MacGuinness, you'll fetch the rest of the game keepers. I want those men. By God. I want those men.' For the exhaustion was slowly being replaced by a burning anger. The greatest anger he had ever known. He was Haggard. He had spent far more money on this village than he had really got out of it. Because it was his village, just as these were his people. And now one of them had been shot to death. 'You find them, MacGuinness. Don't fail me in this.'

He walked back up the slope, gazed at Byron. These are the people to whom you'd give the vote?'

'I'd like to say I'm sorry, Mr. Haggard,' Byron said, ‘I don't condone murder.'

'Ah,' Haggard said, and mounted.

'But perhaps if they had the vote they'd have less cause for it,' Byron said.

Haggard glanced at him, turned his horse. Roger also mounted, and Byron followed their example.

'You don't suppose they were local people, Father?'

Haggard shook his head. 'Local people would never have killed Wring.' He urged his horse towards the gap.

'And what are you going to do?'

'Do?' Haggard did not turn his head, ‘I'm going to hang them. Every last one of them.' 'And then?'

'Rebuild. Do they really think they can bring down John Haggard?'

He drew rein as they came through the cut. The road was a mass of people, as the rumour had spread. Now they surged forward, to surround their squire.

'Is it true, Mr. Haggard?'

The mill's burned, Mr. Haggard?'

'What's happened, Mr. Haggard?'

Haggard held up his hands, and they fell silent.

The mill has been burned,' Haggard said, it is destroyed.' He waited, while a great oh rippled through the crowd. 'And Peter Wring is dead,' Haggard said. 'He was tied up and then shot. It was the most brutal murder I have ever heard of.'

Once again the gasp. Then someone shouted, 'We're with you Mr. Haggard.'

'Oh aye,' shouted another. 'You tell us what to do, Mr. Haggard.'

Haggard held up his hands again. The factory will be rebuilt,' he said. 'As soon as it can be done. But you've no cause to worry. I'll pay your wages, every week, until it is rebuilt, just as if you were working. You've my word on that.'

'Hooray for Mr. Haggard,' someone shouted.

'Hooray for Mr. Haggard,' the cheers were taken up.

Haggard waited for them to finish.

'And who'll avenge Peter Wring?" asked Jemmy Lacey.

‘I will, Jem,' Haggard said. ‘I’ll avenge him. By God I will. I'll find those people, so help me God, and they'll hang for it. You've my word on that as well. They'll hang for it, so help me God.'

Once again the cheers, and he touched his horse with his heels to walk it through the crowd.

'Do you really suppose they'd vote different, my lord?' Roger asked. 'If they could?'

Byron glanced at him. 'Your father knows how to sway a crowd, Captain, and good luck to him. My argument is merely that they should have the opportunity to vote differently. Not that they necessarily would.'

Haggard walked his horse down the drive, dismounted, slowly and stiffly. The servants were all there, waiting for him, Ned to take his bridle, Nugent with a glass of port, Mary Prince fussing about him.

'Look at you, sir,' she said. 'Nothing warm, not even a coat. Mr. Haggard, you'll catch your death of cold.'

'Be off with you, woman,' he growled, and drained the glass. He went inside. He did not wish his anger to fade, not until Peter Wring's murderers stood before him. He wanted to boil and boil and boil inside, so that he could throw the full weight of his hate at them. He climbed the stairs, slowly, aware that all the domestics had remained gathered at the foot, staring after him. And suddenly aware that Alice was standing at the head of the second flight, also staring at him. And this Alice was not half asleep. On the contrary her eyes seemed to blaze at him.

'Is it true, then?' she asked.

'You should be in bed.' He climbed towards her.

'Is it true?' she asked again. That the mill is destroyed?'

‘It's true.'

'And Peter Wring is dead?' Haggard nodded. 'He was murdered.' 'But you're alive,' she hissed at him, as he came closer. Haggard frowned at her. is that such an unpleasant thought?' 'You'll always be alive,' she said. 'You're indestructible. You're Haggard.'

Clearly she had not entirely recovered her wits. Haggard nodded. 'I'll always be alive, Alice. I'm Haggard. Now come on back to bed.'

She stared at him for a moment, then turned and limped in front of him. She wore her nightdress. Nothing else. At her door she halted, seemed to be waiting.

'Shall I open it for you?'

He made to reach past her, and she turned suddenly, leaning her back against the panels, covering the handle. 'Leave me alone,' she said. 'Go away. Leave me alone.'

Haggard's frown deepened. If anything she might have suffered a relapse. 'I'll see you to bed,' he said.

'No,' she snapped, ‘I hate you. Go away. Leave me alone.'

She gasped, and Haggard heard the sob, coming from behind her. He seized her shoulder, jerked her forward and to one side, opened the door, gazed at Johnnie. The boy was on his knees by the bed, weeping.

'Get out.' Alice pounded at his shoulders with her fists. 'You've no right to enter my room. You've no right.'

Haggard stared at his son, and Johnnie slowly raised his head. 'I didn't want it,' he whispered. 'Oh, God, please believe me. I didn't want anyone to die.'

Haggard's heart seemed to slow, and yet there was no diminution in the blood pounding through his veins.

'Who didn't you want to die?' he asked, his voice curiously low.

Johnnie reached his feet, licked his lips, ‘I . . .'

'Peter Wring?'

Johnnie stepped backwards, and his knees touched the bed.

'Why can't you leave him alone?' Alice had stopped pounding and was speaking in a normal tone. 'Haven't you tortured him enough?'

'Was it Peter Wring?' Haggard asked again.

'We were to burn the factory,' Johnnie gabbled. 'Nothing else.

We were to bum the factory. But they wanted Wring. They didn't tell me that, Father. I swear it.'

He stopped, and his jaw slowly sagged as he gazed at the expression on his father's face.

'We?'

'I . . . I . . . I . . .' 'You were there?' Johnnie sat on the bed.

Alice closed the door. 'And why shouldn't he be there?' she demanded. 'Wring deserved to die. He raped Meg Bold. Don't trouble to deny it. As you deserve to die, Father. For having sent him. You all deserve to die. Only Johnnie doesn't have the stomach for killing.'

Haggard turned to her. 'Your doing?'

'Can you deny it?' she spat at him.

He gazed at her. Was he afraid of her? Was he afraid of anything she could say or do? He decided he was not. Not even if she could prove it. And he didn't suppose she could do that. But it would be necessary to face her down.

He turned back to Johnnie. God, how he hated the boy. Alison's child. How could he do other than hate him? But he kept his voice quiet and even. 'Get up, boy. Don't be a snivelling coward all of your life. You believed her?'

Johnnie licked his lips, pushed himself to his feet, isn't . . . isn't it true?'

'Do you really suppose I'd waste the time?' Haggard demanded. Did it matter? Why did he not tell the little lout, and watch him squirm with hatred. 'And do you suppose the virginity of a tinker's daughter is worth the life of a man? Her mother was a whore. A whore, do you understand? She was my whore, then when I threw her out she went whoring elsewhere. A whore's daughter, that's who you were puling after.'

'You'll not say that.' Alice struck at him, but he caught her hand easily enough, turned her and sat her on the bed. 'You'll not,' she gasped.

‘I thought you were a stickler for the truth, miss? You.' He pointed at Johnnie, ‘I want the names of the men who rode with you. I want the name of the man who shot Peter Wring.'

Johnnie stared at him, mouth opening and shutting.

'So you can hang them all?' Alice snarled.

That's right,' Haggard said. 'So I can hang them all. Quickly, boy, or you'll dangle beside them.'

Johnnie Haggard found his voice, ‘I was there, Father. I led them. I'll not betray them.'

Haggard's hands opened and shut. But he could not control them. His arm shot out and the flat of his hand slashed across Johnnie's face. The boy tumbled backwards, struck the end of the bed and sat on the floor. The door opened, and Roger stepped in.

'Father?'

'He led them,' Haggard said. 'He's boasting of it. My own son, a Luddite and a murderer.'

'Christ,' Roger said, is it true?'

'He had cause,' Alice gasped. 'He had cause. He . . .'

'He's due for a hanging.' Haggard said. 'Because of her hate.'

Alice's mouth closed, slowly. She bit her lip instead. Roger glanced from one to the other in bewilderment.

'But I'll save you, boy. God knows why. I'll save you, if you'll give me the names of those at your back.'

Johnnie held on to the bedpost to pull himself to his feet. He remained out of reach of his father's hands, and tears were rolling down his cheeks. But his face was set. 'I'll not, Father. They rode with me, at my bidding.'

'Who?'

Johnnie shook his head.

'Why?' Roger demanded, in the name of God, why?'

'I didn't want Wring to die,' Johnnie said. 'But he deserved to. He raped Meg. And Father sent him to do it.' He caught his breath, as if amazed that he should have spoken the words.

Roger stared at his father.

'Do you believe him, boy?'

'I ... of course I don't.'

'Aye, well, it was all a product of Alice's diseased brain.' 'It was not. It was . . .' But again she checked herself. 'Alice?'

Her shoulders slumped. ‘I don't know. I ... I was sure. I lay under the tree, and there were five men. Wring and the others. And I thought I ... I don't know.' She threw herself on her face across the bed, shoulders wracked by great sobs, ‘I don't know. Oh, God, I don't know.'

'Christ,' Roger said again. 'Oh, Christ. You believed her, Johnnie?'

‘I . . . I . . .'

The names, boy,' Haggard said. The names.'

Johnnie shook his head again. 'I won't. They trusted me. I won't.'

Trusted you,' Haggard snorted. 'And you'll hang for them?' Slowly Johnnie's head came up. His lips were trembling. 'Oh, aye,' Haggard said. 'Don't suppose being a Haggard will save you from the noose. You'll hang boy. You'll hang.'

'Of course he means to frighten him,' Roger said. He stood in the centre of the Bolds' kitchen, gazed at the startled faces. Even Harry and Tim looked to be frightened. 'And I wouldn't have supposed Johnnie has the courage of a louse. But he won't betray them.'

'Perhaps he's afraid to,' Emma said. She drove her hands into her hair. 'Perhaps . . .' She gazed at her daughter.

‘I’m sorry for it, Captain Haggard,' she said. 'Oh, I'm sorry for it.'

'Perhaps if . . . there's nothing you remember about the men who attacked you?'

'Leave the girl be,' Harry Bold growled. 'You think she wants to remember? Leave her be. You've no cause coming here, anyway. You've got trouble in Derleth, that's your business. Haggard's business is Haggard's business. You're happy enough to say that when things are going well. Like you say, it'll serve young puppy right. Beginning what he can't finish. Let him get frightened. Let him get frightened to death. You clear out of here, and leave us be. Captain Haggard.'

Roger looked from one to the other. 'I'd like a word with Meg, alone,' he said.

'You'll not,' Harry said. 'You'll not speak with her. Who do you suppose has suffered worse than any? Worse than your stinking brother ever could. You'll not speak with her, Haggard.'

'Emma?'

Emma sighed, and raised her head. 'She isn't well, Roger. You can see she isn't well. She hasn't been well since that night. Harry's right. You've no right to pry. You had no right to pry in the first place. Johnnie deserves a good thrashing.'

'She's . . .' Haggard glanced at Meg. Her eyes were wide, beseeching him not to betray her. How like Alice she is, he thought. She had given him everything she had to give. Now she did not want him to allow her family to discover that. He shrugged. 'If that's the way you feel, Mrs. Bold. I'll say good day.' He went to the door, hesitated there, looked over his shoulder, if you should want to see me again, you'll know where I am.'

He sat his horse in the trees, and watched the cottage through his glass. But without hope, now. He had sat here for three hours, and she had not come. She had not even left the house to feed the chickens. He could not believe that she could have used him, so coldly and dispassionately, to regain her womanhood. Dispassionately? He could not believe she was that good an actress.

But she was not coming. And he was wasting time. Valuable time. There was so much to be done at the Hall, where Johnnie was confined to his room. Father had used the emergency power granted the Justices of the Peace by the recent legislation to hasten the trial—summary justice in the case of frame breaking had in any event been one object of the law—and the neighbouring magistrates who were required to make up the quorum were already sent for. If he was about to frighten his son, he was making a very good job of it.

She was not coming, and there was an end to it. For a last time he levelled the telescope. Slowly a frown gathered between his eyes. Meg had not come out to feed the chickens for the very simple reason that there were no chickens. Nor was there any smoke issuing from the chimney. Fool that he was for not noticing that immediately.

Would it have made any difference? He kicked his horse, cantered across the meadow, down the path. The front door was locked, but he could peer in through the windows. The stocking frames were still there, as was the empty range, the four chairs, the wooden table. Nothing else. He went round the back, stared into the bedroom. There were no blankets, no clothes. The Bolds had abandoned their home.

'But do you believe it?' Roger demanded.

Byron sat on the terrace, gazing out across the deer park. 'What I believe, my dear Haggard, is immaterial. Your brother certainly believed it, as he had been told so by his sister. It is she you wish to question.'

Roger sighed, and sat down. 'And drive her a little further out of her mind? What advice did you give Johnnie?'

'Ah,' Byron said, ‘I dissuaded him from doing anything foolish.' 'You would not call murder foolish?' 'Now you know that was not premeditated.'

'Not by Johnnie, at any rate,' Roger agreed. 'I know that.'' But by his accomplices? By Harry Bold and his son? If they knew, or if they even believed, that Peter Wring had raped Meg, there was motive enough. Motive enough for them to flee, afterwards, too. For fear that Johnnie would betray them, while he, poor deluded fool, was now set on playing the hero. But, Roger wondered, did he really want them betrayed? Did he want Meg's brother and father to hang?

Did he want Johnnie to hang? But that was nonsense. Father would never let it come to that.

He got up. 'I had thought you were returning to town.'

‘I’ll stay, if you don't mind,' Byron said. 'Johnnie is one of my closest friends. I'll not desert him.'

'Good of you,' Roger remarked, drily, and went inside. He climbed the stairs to his father's office, but the room was empty. He went upstairs again, opened Alice's door. But she had asked for, and been given, some more laudanum, and was asleep. He seemed to be surrounded by grey clouds, through which he could not push. But that was nonsense. He was Roger Haggard. He had pushed through thicker clouds than these in the past.

He ran downstairs, called for Corcoran. 'I may need a couple of good arms.'

‘I’m with you, sir,' Corcoran agreed.

They rode through the gap, gazed at the burned out mill. Under MacGuinness's directions, men were already clearing the blackened timbers, dragging out the shattered frames, testing the walls for strength. Squire had said rebuilding would commence immediately, and it was doing just that. While Peter Wring still awaited burial. While John Haggard junior still awaited trial.

'MacGuinness,' Roger called.

The big man raised his head, slapped his hands together, came towards the horse. His labourers stopped working and watched.

'I'd like a word with you, Mr. MacGuinness,' Roger said, in private.'

’I aye, Captain Haggard. In good time, sir. In good time.' 'Now,' Roger said.

MacGuinness shook his head. 'Squire's orders are to have this site cleared by the time he returns from Derby. Can't stop for nothing, Captain Haggard.'

'MacGuinness . . .' Roger hesitated. The other men had laid down their tools and drawn closer. Amongst them were the remainder of the gamekeepers. Wring's accomplices? Alice thought so. But Alice had as good as admitted her mistake. And in any event, they were closing their ranks against him. He was the outsider, now. He'd been away too long.

MacGuinness smiled at him. 'You ask squire, Captain Haggard. You ask him if I can stop to speak with you, and I'll be willing. You ask squire.'

Ask squire. Roger was in front of the house to greet his father. 'Father. We must..’

'What's he doing here?' Haggard's arm was outflung, the finger pointing at Byron.

'Well, he's Johnnie's friend . . .'

'Friend?' Haggard's voice rasped. 'Lover, more like. They're a pair of damnable sodomites. You,' he shouted, stamping on to the terrace. 'You are no longer welcome here, sir. Get off my property.'

Byron stood up. His face was cold, if his cheek were bright. 'Your manners do you little credit, Mr. Haggard. I am your son's friend.'

'You, sir? Why . . .'

'His only friend, I would estimate,' Byron continued. 'Oh, I shall leave your miserable Folly, sir, as you demand it. But I shall not go very far.'

He went inside, and Roger scratched his head in sheer amazement. 'Surely you've no right to make such an accusation?'

'No right?' Haggard snapped. 'Johnnie as good as confessed it. My son . . . Christ, I can hardly believe it.'

'Aye, well, it takes all sorts. I'd agree with you that his lordship was a bad influence. But now he's gone . . .'

'You talk as if there was nothing wrong,' Haggard said. 'As if it scarce matters whether a man loves a man or a woman. By God . . .'

' Tis Johnnie concerns me,' Roger shouted. 'Surely this farce has gone far enough. Only Johnnie matters now. I wish to know when you are going to drop the charges.'

Haggard stared at him for several moments, then turned on his heel and went inside.

Surely this farce has gone on long enough. He sat at his desk and stared at the closed door. To know what to do. He was John Haggard. He could do anything he wished, within reason. But he was Justice of the Peace for Derleth. Over the years these people had grown to respect him and to trust him. and now one of their number had been killed, in his service, and he had promised to bring the murderer to justice.

But the murderer was his own son. A snivelling coward who was also a sodomite. Did he wish such a son? Could a man execute his own son?

He was John Haggard. He could do anything he wished. Therefore he could drop the charges and release Johnnie. So perhaps the people of Derleth would then hate him as much as everyone else hated him. Would that be so very hard to bear?

And what of Johnnie? He had stumbled on the truth, even if he no longer believed it. Was he then confessing that he would execute his son to prevent his own crime being discovered? Then what of Alice?

Unworthy thoughts. All unworthy thoughts. He was overtired, and he was too emotionally disturbed. Where was the John Haggard who had ridden out to face Malcolm Bolton? Then it had been a simple matter. The cause of the duel had been puerile. But it had had to be fought. And if it had to be fought, it had to be won. Better to kill in a puerile cause than to be killed in one. He had made the decision without the slightest hesitation. That was Haggard law. Do what is right, and what is right for Haggard is right for the community at large. It had to be so. But for his wealth and his paternalistic attitude, Derleth would have declined into a vast slum. Haggard law.

And Johnnie was Alison's son. How had he hated her, while she had lived, just as he had hated her since her death. Could Johnnie really be any different? He had all of his mother's perversions, all of his mother's secret ambitions and desires which had so infuriated him. Johnnie should never have been born. He should have been the babe which had killed her, and he should have died with her. There was the truth of the matter.

But could a man kill his own son? It had been done before. There was even a Biblical text about it, something about plucking out mine own eye, if it offends me. He found himself smiling in his despair. John Haggard, quoting the Bible.

'Gentlemen.' He stood in the doorway of his study.

'Mr. Haggard.' Squire Burton of Plowding took-his hand. 'We . . . well . . .'He glanced at Sergeant McCloud.

' Tis a devilish situation, Haggard,' McCloud remarked. 'A devilish situation.'

Haggard closed the door, indicated chairs. He'd not anticipate. The fact is, Haggard . . .' Burton wiped his brow. 'You'll not be sitting?' 'Why not?'

'For God's sake, man, you cannot try your own son.' 'Why not?'

'Well . . .' He glanced at McCloud.

Who cleared his throat. The fact is, Haggard, we are wondering if you'd like to withdraw the charge. Then we could enter a nolle prosequi, and the whole thing could be forgotten. There is not a shred of evidence that your son was involved . . .'

'He confessed to it.'

'Save his confession, I was going to say. Now, sir, if he were to withdraw that confession, I do not see how we could proceed. I don't suppose we could. Now, sir, there is yet time for you to convince the young man of his utter folly. I've no doubt some girl is involved, what?' He paused, and gave a nervous laugh. 'Or . . . something of that nature. He's protecting someone. Well, sir, it's absurd. So, sir . . .'

'He has confessed to murder and to arson and to frame breaking,' Haggard said. 'It is written down . . .' it can be mislaid, easily enough.'

'You are asking me to condone a miscarriage of justice.'

in the name of God, sir, is it not a miscarriage of justice to hang your own son? It will come to that, sir. Once we take our places and he takes his, why, sir . . .'

'You'll know he has refused counsel?' Burton asked.

That is his prerogative,' Haggard said. 'It would be useless in any event.'

There was a knock on the door, and MacGuinness pushed in his head. 'Master John's been taken down, Mr. Haggard.'

'Thank you, MacGuinness. We hold court in the school hall, gentleman. Shall we go?'

'Haggard . . .'

'They are waiting for us, gentlemen.' Haggard opened the door, in the circumstances, McCloud, I'd be obliged if you'd act as chairman.' 'What are we to do?' Burton whispered.

McCloud hesitated, then his face cleared. 'He means to punish the boy. That's certain. But he'll never hang. The sentence will have to be commuted.'

To transportation? Is that any better?'

McCloud sighed, and shrugged. Haggard had remained just outside the door.

'They are waiting, gentlemen.'

'State your full name,' MacGuinness requested.

John Haggard drew a long breath. 'John Simpson Haggard,' he said. Amazingly, his eyes were dry. He was finished with weeping. He could look around the schoolroom, even try to identify some of the people. Roger was easy enough to spot; he had put on his uniform and was a blaze of crimson, his face equally red, his features strained. Byron was equally simple to see, leaning back, his face a picture of composed contempt as he surveyed the court; he had taken rooms at the inn. But behind them the faces were a blur; the hall was packed quite literally to the door.

'John Haggard,' MacGuinness said, 'you are accused that on the eighteenth of July last you did feloniously and unlawfully kill and murder one Peter Wring gamekeeper, and further that on the said date you did feloniously and unlawfully enter a mill the property of . . .' MacGuinness drew a long breath. 'Mr. John Haggard of Derleth Manor in the village of Derleth in the county of Derbyshire and therein did destroy stocking frames and other equipment to the value of two thousand pounds, and further that on the said date you did set fire to the said mill with a view to destroying it utterly. How plead you to these charges?'

'I plead guilty,' Johnnie said.

There was a violent buzz, and Sergeant McCloud banged his desk with his gavel.

'I will clear the court if I have to,' he remarked. 'Mr. Haggard, you will face the bench."

Johnnie faced them, stared at McCloud. He would not look at his father.

'You understand the gravity of these charges?' McCloud asked. 'Yes, sir.'

'You understand that the penalty is prescribed by law, that we have no room to make exceptions?' 'Yes, sir.'

'Well, then, do you persist in your plea?' 'Yes, sir.'

McCloud sighed, and glanced at Burton.

'Do you not suppose, Mr. Haggard, that it would be better for you to consult counsel before taking such an irrevocable decision?' Burton asked. 'I am sure the bench would agree to an adjournment.'

‘I have no need for counsel, sir,' Johnnie said.

'For God's sake, boy, 'tis your life we are discussing.'

'I have pleaded guilty to murder, sir.'

Burton stared at him for a moment, then threw up his hands and leaned back in his seat. McCloud glanced at Haggard, leaned towards him.

'Do you recommend transportation, or some such punishment, Mr. Haggard?' he said. 'Be sure we shall support you.¹

'There is no possibility of transportation for any of the three offences the prisoner has committed.' Haggard did not whisper, and his voice was clearly audible. 'You have done your best to irregularise these proceedings as it is. Justice demands that the proceedings be completed now. I demand it.'

McCloud turned back to the court.

'Prisoner at the bar, have you anything to say before I pass sentence?'

Johnnie Haggard's face was pale, but his lips were firmly pressed together. Just a trace of brightness showed at his eyes. ‘I have nothing to say, sir.'

McCloud looked right and left. Burton raised his eyebrows and then closed his eyes. Haggard stared at his son.

McCloud sighed. 'Prisoner at the bar, you have confessed to three grave and criminal offences, each one of which carries with it the death penalty. This court can do nothing more for you. You are therefore sentenced to be taken from here back to your cell, and from thence to a place of execution, and there you shall be hanged by the neck until you are dead.'

Once again the court surged into uproar. People were shouting from the back, 'Murderer,' at Haggard. Others were just shouting. Illing touched John Haggard on the arm. There's a room for you at the inn, Mr. John,' he said, 'if you don't mind my company for the night.'

'Weil have you out, Johnnie,' Byron said. They'll not hang Johnnie Haggard.'

'You'd best stay inside a while, Mr. Haggard,' MacGuinness muttered. 'The people are in an ugly mood.'

'I have faced mobs before, MacGuinness.' Haggard stood up, gazed at Roger, whose mingled anger and disbelief were easy to see. Haggard attempted to signal him with his eyes, but Roger turned away. Even Roger. He did not yet understand the responsibilities of being Squire of Derleth, of being Haggard.

He went down the aisle, and after a brief hesitation Burton and McCloud followed him.

Roger remained seated, staring after them. He did not believe he was truly awake. But what had he expected to happen? Once the case came to court it could have only one conclusion. Father was playing his savage game to the very end. He pushed himself up, found himself face to face with Byron.

'Well, Captain, your father has had his little joke,' Byron said. 'And in very poor taste it is too. How far will you permit it to go?'

'No farther, you may be sure of that,' Roger said.

'Aye, well, it will be a close run thing. Sentence has been passed. You're talking of a reprieve now.'

'I shall organise it.'

‘I wish you fortune. I am to Derby to obtain the Lieutenant's intercession, whether Johnnie wishes it or not.' 'On what grounds?'

Byron closed one eye. 'On an irregularity. Surely it is an irregularity for Haggard to try his own son?' 'Even if he did not ask for clemency?'

'An irregularity is an irregularity, Haggard. I'll make him listen if I have to keep him up all night.'

There's not time. There is only one man can save Johnnie now, and that is Father. And by God, I will see to it that he does. You'll excuse me, my lord.' He turned away, pushed his way through the crowd, stopped as a woman stepped in front of him, stared at Margaret Bold.

Emma stood behind her. Each woman wore a shawl thrown over her head and gathered under her chin, and would have been indistinguishable had they not removed them. But Meg, and Emma in Derleth? And after having run away.

He seized the girl's hands. 'Meg.' It was outrageous of him to be happy. But never had he been so happy. 'Oh, Meg.'

'We must speak with you, Roger.' Emma's voice was low.

'You shall. You shall. Come on.' He escorted them towards the door, and checked. From outside they could still hear the chanting of the crowd. He did not know what might be happening out there; he did not suppose it would greatly worry his father. But Meg, and Emma . . . 'We'd best wait awhile,' he said.

They are cursing the squire,' Emma said.

'Aye. Who'd have thought it, eh? After all these years.' He found them seats; the hall was rapidly emptying, and they were almost alone in the comer of the room. 'Oh, Meg, Meg . . .' Once again he took her hands. To run off . . .'

‘It was Pa's doing,' she said. 'Pa, and Tim. They made us go.'

'Because they were afraid?'

Meg glanced at Emma.

They were afraid, Roger. Did you know?'

He shrugged. 'I guessed.'

'But you did not ride after them?'

'I was more concerned with Johnnie.'

She nodded. That's why we're here. Johnnie didn't shoot Peter Wring. It was Harry.'

'Cold-blooded murder, Emma.' 'Execution, Roger. He raped Meg.'

'Now, Emma, you don't believe that? That was a concoction thrown up by Alice while she was confused by the bang on her head. Even she no longer believes it.'

'But it's true,' Emma insisted, her voice rising. She looked around herself, flushed. Tell him, Meg.'

'Well . . .' Meg licked her lips. 'After you left us that morning. Pa said we must get out of here. Ma and me didn't know what he was talking about, but he was that determined. We couldn't argue him, Captain. It weren't possible. He was like a madman. Tim, too. It was all haste, haste, haste.'

'We left that night,' Emma said. 'Stole away in the darkness like criminals. Well, I suppose we were. Abandoned everything.'

'I know,' Roger said, ‘I visited you the next day.'

'Did you?' Meg's eyes glowed. Then you would have forgiven me, Captain?'

'Forgiven you, I . . .'

'Finish what you have to say,' Emma insisted.

Meg licked her lips again. 'Well, next day we were into Leicestershire, and still hurrying. They wouldn't talk, Pa and Tim, but by now we knew something dreadful had happened. And at last it came out. Weren't murder, Pa kept insisting. It was justice. Peter Wring deserved to die, and so did Toby Doon and George Illing and all of them.'

'But I told you . . .' Roger began.

'Listen to me,' Meg said, almost fiercely. Toby Doon. It was the first time I'd heard that name. And suddenly I knew that I'd heard it before. When Pa asked me if I could tell him about the men who . . . who attacked me, I couldn't think of a thing. I could only think of them holding me and holding me and holding me. But then I remembered they'd used his name. Someone had said, your turn, Toby Doon. And another had said, hold your trap, you silly bastard.'

Roger frowned at her. 'You'll have heard the name. Meg. In conversation, in . . .'

'How?' Emma demanded. 'Your father's gamekeepers don't come over Plowding way. They're not that popular.'

'Plowding people work in Father's factory,' Roger pointed out. They'd know Toby. It's possible Meg may have heard the name.'

The girl stared at him with her mouth open. 'You don't believe me?'

'I want to believe you. God, how I want to believe you. But you're asking me to believe that Alice was right, that Father did engineer the whole thing. My God.' He found himself staring at Emma.

'If he did, Roger Haggard,' she said. 'If he did, then he cannot go through with the execution of Johnnie.'

‘I doubt he means that anyway,' Roger said. 'It is just his way.'

'His way?' Emma cried. 'You don't know your father very well, Roger. His way? You weren't there when he turned his people out into the snow. You were there when he sent his men against Harry and me. Oh, there are so many things. I don't know them all. I can't tell you them all: But when John Haggard determines to do something, he does it. You must stop him, Roger, or that boy will hang. God knows I have no love for your brother, but you cannot stand by and see him hang.'

Roger bit his lip. 'You understand, Meg, and you, Emma, that if I threaten to make the whole thing public, and Father calls my bluff, there will be warrants sworn for the arrest of Harry and Tim? Murder warrants. They'll be taken and hanged.'

'Aye, well,' Emma said. 'Tis a large country.'

'Are you serious?'

'Don't you understand?' she cried, ‘I'd not do it. Christ, I'd not do it. But we had to come back, and see. If Johnnie had been sent to prison, if he'd been transported, why we could have said nothing. But he's innocent of murder, Roger. And he's played a better part in this, keeping his mouth shut, than he has ever done before.'

Roger gazed at Meg. is that the only reason you came back?'

Her tongue stole out, and then retreated again. They'd not let me, Captain,' she said. They'd not let me.'

'Are you going to sit there the day?' Emma demanded.

Roger got up. 'No. If you're sure, we'll face Father down. Come on.'

'Murderer,' the crowd shouted.

'Jeffries,' bawled someone else, more learned than the rest, and referring to the infamous Bloody Assizes of a hundred and thirty years before.

Haggard stood on the steps of the school hall and gazed at them. He was surprised more than angry. Certainly he was not afraid of them. He was their squire, they were his people. And he was avenging one of them. He felt like holding up his hands, making them a speech, explaining, why he'd been so inflexible. But he'd not appeal to a mob. Not even his own mob. Not any more.

'We'd best be away, Mr. Haggard.' MacGuinness stood at his elbow, faithful as ever.

Or was he faithful? Haggard glanced at him. 'And what would you call me, MacGuinness?'

'Me, sir?' But MacGuinness would not meet his gaze. Even he would condemn the squire, if he dared.

Haggard went down the steps; Ned had come across, as indeed had all the servants from the Hall, and he held the bridle. But he said nothing. Haggard swung into the saddle, looked around him, and the crowd fell silent. But they were all there. He could make out Jemmy Lacey, and his sister; Nugent the butler, Toby Doon and George Illing; Hatchard; Porlock, his face a study in consternation, Mrs. Porlock clinging to his arm. All there. His own people, in whose cause he had wasted more than twenty years of his life. And at the back, Squire Burton and Sergeant McCloud, sitting their horses. All gathered to condemn him, for upholding the law.

He turned his horse, rode through them. They parted before him. From behind him some of the shouts started again, but those within reach of his gaze remained silent. Would not one of them shout, God bless you, squire?

He rode up the drive to the Hall. He had been a fool. He had been a fool to come to England at all. Every catastrophe he had known had arisen from that simple mistake. Well, that was not altogether true. He had been as unpopular in Barbados, and he had suffered even greater catastrophes. But there the sun had shone. There his people had been slaves, who dared not criticise, who dared not even hold any opinion contrary to their master. There, with Emma, he had been happy.

And there, with another Emma, he could be happy again.

He dismounted, left the reins hanging; the horse peered after him inquiringly. He walked to the door, and it opened for him. Mary Prince. Of all the servants, only Mary Prince had remained.

'You look tired, Mr. Haggard,' she said. 'A glass of port will do you good.'

Haggard glanced at her. Mary Prince. He could remember the coal dust dribbling down those slender legs. Mary Prince. He had taken her on the day his world had fallen apart. The day he had thrown Emma out. Mary Prince.

He climbed the stairs. 'Mr. Haggard?' she called.

'Leave me,' he said.

'But, Mr. Haggard . . .'

'Go away,' he shouted. 'Go and join your friends in the village. Go and chant, murderer, with them. Leave me alone.'

He climbed the next flight, opened the bedroom door. Alice was sitting up; when she saw him her face seemed to close.

'Where is your maid?'

‘I sent her away. I sent her to the village.'

'She is supposed to stay with you, day and night.'

‘I am not a child, Father. Nor am I truly ill any more. I asked her to bring me a report of the trial.'

Haggard nodded, sat on the bed. She regarded him as if he were about to assault her, carefully eased herself away from him. How like Emma she looked. In many ways, how like Emma she was. And they knew each other so very well. He did not want sex from her, or from anyone. He was too tired. Too dispirited, perhaps, at this moment, anyway. But he wanted her company. Even if she would not speak, he still wanted her company. Just to see her, that red stain on her shoulders, those small composed features. Just to see her was to remember. Just to remember was to be John Haggard's of Haggard's Penn, once more.

'Well?' she asked.

'He was found guilty.'

'And?'

Haggard shrugged. 'The law is quite specific about each one of his crimes. Certainly about murder.' ' 'He didn't kill Wring. Not Johnnie.' 'He has never denied it.'

Her frown began to gather. 'And you allowed sentence to be passed? On your own son? You could stop it. Father.' She seized his hand. 'However much you hate Johnnie. However much you hate me. You cannot let him hang.'

She had never taken his hand before. Her fingers were cool. 'Hate you, Alice. I have never hated you.'

She stared at him, and flushed. Her fingers relaxed, but they did not move. 'You'll save him, Father. Please. Oh, God, please.'

Haggard gazed at her. 'We'll leave this place,' he said. 'You and I, Alice. We'll leave the Hall. Roger will be back to live here, soon enough. We'll leave it, you and I, and we'll return to Barbados. You remember Barbados?"

'I . . .' Her eyes were wide, ‘I remember Barbados.'

'Will you come with me, Alice? Back to the Penn? Back to the sunlight and the sea and the trade wind?' He smiled. 'Back to the hurricanes? Do you remember the hurricanes?" But even hurricanes would be better than English weather. Hurricanes were something for a man to match himself against. A man could not fight this deadly, endless rain. 'I should have gone back, years ago. I should never have left. But we'll go back now. Will you, Alice?'

'If . . . if you wish it. Father. If you'll save Johnnie.'

'You'd bargain?'

Her chin came up. 'If that's how it must be Father. Me, for Johnnie.'

He frowned at her. There was no love in her eyes. Not even a suggestion of affection. She was concluding a business deal. Why, Alison had looked like that when they had sat around the table in Brand's house, discussing the marriage contract. Me, for Johnnie. She was set to be the martyr. She'd look after him for the rest of his life, sacrificing her own happiness, and never letting him forget it for an instant.

He moved her hand, got up.

‘I will Father,' she said. 'I'd never leave you. I swear it. Just let Johnnie live.'

Haggard closed the door behind him. He walked along the corridor, climbed the stairs to the tower room. However empty it was nowadays, it remained ready for occupation. The bed was made, the room was carefully swept and dusted every day. The desk was neat, and there would be paper in the drawer.

He stood at the window, looked out at the deer park. This was the most attractive view in Derleth, away from the village and the cut to the mine and the factory. He was a fool to have abandoned it. He was a fool.

Hooves. He went to the other window, looked down on the road from the village, on the drive, watched Roger galloping up to the house. Behind him there was a pony and trap and some people, women. Come to beg for Johnnie's life. Everyone in the world, begging for Johnnie's life. Loving Johnnie. Hating Haggard.

Haggard sat at the desk, took out a sheet of notepaper, and began to write.

Roger flung himself from the saddle, ran at the door. Mary Prince stood there. 'Captain? Oh, Captain . . .'

'Where is my father?'

'He went upstairs. He seemed very upset, Captain.'

Haggard took the stairs three at a time. At the top of the second flight he saw Alice, just leaving her bedroom. 'Alice?'

'Father was here,' she said. 'He was in a very strange mood.'

'Wouldn't you be, after sentencing your son to death? Where is he now?'

‘I don't know. He said we were going back to Barbados, and when I agreed, he just turned and walked out of the room.'

The sound of the shot was dull in the huge, empty house. For a moment they stared at each other, then Roger ran along the corridor, Alice limping behind. But she did not climb to the tower, remained in the withdrawing room below, turned to look at Emma and Meg as they came in, escorted by Mary Prince.

'What . . .'

‘I don't know. There was a ... oh, God, I don't know.' Roger came slowly down the stairs, holding the sheet of paper in his hand.

'John?' Emma asked. 'Mr. Haggard?' She ran for the stairs. Roger caught her arm. 'You'll not wish to go up there, Emma?'

She shrugged herself free, ‘I am as much wife as he ever had, Roger Haggard.' She climbed the stairs.

'What did he write?' Alice asked.

Roger sighed. 'Who'd have thought it? Father? The most self-contented man I ever knew.' He held out the paper. The most determined man I ever knew. He had written a recommendation that Johnnie be retried, because of prejudice on the part of one of the magistrates, himself. He wrote that, and then he shot himself.'

Alice sat down. 'Perhaps none of us knew him well enough,' she said.

Meg just stood there, stared at her mother, as she came back down the stairs. 'You loved him, Ma. More'n you ever loved Pa.'

'Aye,' Emma said. 'I loved him. God, how I loved him. If I'd not been proud two years ago . . .' She gazed at Roger. 'What will you do? You are squire of Derleth now.'

'Do?' Roger looked at the stairs. His father, a suicide. The world would not forget or forgive. But did the world matter? Father had been Haggard; there was sufficient. As he was now Haggard. He walked to the windows, looked out at the drive and the people gathered on the road beyond. They had come to hate the squire, just as only a few days before they had gathered to support him. But he was the squire now. They would depend on him for their livelihood and their guidance. It was his business to decide their future. By giving them more freedom, as Byron would have it? By thinking of it, at the least. 'You'll not let Johnnie hang,' Alice said.

'No. But he'll not stay here. He'll not stay in England. He committed a crime, Alice.'

Transportation? He'd not stand that.' Her voice rose. 'You may as well hang him.'

'Not transportation. I shall drop the charges against him. But he'll go to Barbados. And for the rest of his life.' 'And Harry?' Emma asked.

Roger Haggard turned back from the window. ‘I said I'd drop all charges, Emma.'

Emma hesitated, then dried her cheeks. 'Aye, well . . .' She glanced at her daughter. 'We'd best see if we can find them.'

'Do you want to find them?' Roger asked.

Emma bit her lip.

'You'll stay here.' Roger said. 'For as long as you wish.' He walked across, took Meg's hands. 'For ever. Here is where you belong.' 'But you'll stay as well?' Meg asked.

Haggard looked down at his uniform. 'Aye. They'll give me a discharge." He squeezed her hand, kissed her on the forehead. 'I must go and talk to those people. My people.'

The end