Edward Marston - The Counterfeit Crank

‘Give yourself up while you can!’ he yelled.

‘No,’ replied Nicholas, boldly. ‘You’ll have to come and get me.’

‘You are trespassing on private property.’

‘My crime pales beside those that you have committed, Master Olgrave.’

‘Watch what you say, sir!’

‘Your days in Bridewell are over. You and your partner will be thrown out of here like the villains that you are. You’ll hang from the gallows — both of you.’

‘Seize him!’ shouted Olgrave.

Nicholas looked along the roof and saw that a short, stocky man was climbing out of a gable window some ten yards away. When the man got on to the tiles and steadied himself, he pulled a dagger from his belt. Making his way up the incline, he reached the apex and cocked a leg over it. Nicholas expected the man to move towards him but the keeper had another plan. Without warning, he suddenly hurled the weapon at Nicholas. The book holder swung quickly to the left but the dagger still grazed his arm. Though it was only a scratch, he put a hand to it to stem the trickle of blood.

Encouraged by his success, the man moved a few feet closer to his target before taking a second dagger from his belt. He was confident of hitting him this time. As the keeper raised his arm to throw, Nicholas snatched out his own weapon and used it to parry the missile that came hurtling towards him. It clattered down the roof and fell harmlessly into the river below. Nicholas then did something that amazed Ralph Olgrave and the others who were watching from the courtyard. Standing up on the ridge tiles, he stretched out his arms to aid his balance then walked nimbly along them as if strolling on firm ground. He threatened the keeper with his dagger.

‘Get down while you may,’ he ordered.

‘Keep off!’

‘Go now, and you’ll not be harmed.’

The man tried to obey. Losing his nerve, he tried to lower himself swiftly down the roof but his hold slipped and he tumbled backwards, rolling down the incline until he dropped over the edge. He let out a long scream of despair as he plummeted downwards. When his body hit the ground, there was an awesome thud, followed by a long silence. It was eventually broken by a command from Ralph Olgrave.

‘Fetch guns!’ he ordered. ‘Shoot him off the roof.’

Joseph Beechcroft heard the scream and rushed to the window of the counting house to look down. By the light of the torches, he could see the keeper’s body, twisted into an unnatural shape as it lay on the ground. Their interloper was still at liberty. Beechcroft did not wait any longer. Sensing that their reign at the Bridewell was nearing its end, he unlocked a cupboard and took out several purses, stuffing them into a leather satchel as fast as he could. Leaving his partner’s share of the booty intact, he locked the cupboard again and fled through the door, hurtling down the staircase. When he came out of the door at ground level, he had to step over the body of the dead man.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Olgrave.

‘Leaving while I can, Ralph. You should do the same.’

‘But we have him cornered. A pistol or a musket will soon bring him down.’

‘Yes,’ said Beechcroft, looking up. ‘In front of witnesses. There’ll be faces watching from every window. What they’ll see is murder. I’ll not stay.’

‘Hold!’ said Olgrave, grabbing his arm. ‘We can face this out.’

‘No, Ralph. It’s too late. The game is up.’

‘Why throw it all away?’

‘Let me go,’ insisted Beechcroft.

Pulling his arm free, he fled across the courtyard in the direction of the main gate.

Though she became increasingly weary, Dorothea Tate did not dare to fall asleep. Concealed in her doorway, she did not shift her gaze from Bridewell for a second, hoping and praying that her chance would somehow come. She reflected on the horrors she had suffered inside its walls, and thought once more of her dearest friend, stolen from her forever because he had tried to protect her. Dorothea also thought fondly of those who had given her succour in the wake of her loss. She was jerked out of her reverie by the sound of the gate of Bridewell, creaking back on its hinges. She was on her feet in an instant. Her eyes were now accustomed to the dark and she was able to pick out the shape of the rider who came out through the gate. Her spirits lifted. Revenge was at hand.

Certain that it was Joseph Beechcroft, she ran to the middle of the road and pulled out her stone, flinging it hard at the rider as the horse cantered towards her. It struck Beechcroft in the chest, making him fall back and pull involuntarily on the reins. Skidding to a halt with a neigh of protest, the horse reared and threw him from the saddle. Dorothea dashed across to him and began to punch him with both fists. Beechcroft was dazed by the fall but was not badly injured. He soon recovered enough to defend himself, seizing her by the wrists to stop her assault. It was then that he recognised her.

‘We should have killed you along with your friend,’ he growled.

‘Murderer!’ she cried and spat in his face.

‘You little devil!’

He flung her away, wiped the spit from his eyes then got to his feet. When he saw her trying to pick up the stone again, he rushed across to twist it from her hand, then raised it high to dash against her head.

‘Stop!’ yelled a voice. ‘Leave the child alone!’

Beechcroft turned to see a group of men, hurrying towards Bridewell with lighted torches. One of their number, a stocky Welshman, was racing towards him.

‘Owen!’ cried Dorothea.

‘Is that you, girl?’ he asked in astonishment.

‘This is him. This is Master Beechcroft.’

‘Leave him to me, Dorothea.’

Dropping the stone, Beechcroft took to his heels but he did not get far. Elias soon overhauled him and jumped on his back to bring him down. Hitting the hard road with his forehead, Beechcroft was too stunned to fight back. Elias turned him over as two men arrived to shed light on the scene with their torches.

‘Arrest this one first,’ said Elias, ‘before I lose my temper with him.’

The commotion in the courtyard had aroused many spectators. Windows were opened so that inmates, and those who rented rooms at the workhouse, could see what was going on. Some of the guests had stumbled out of the hall to watch from the doorway. Ralph Olgrave tried to persuade them to go back to their banquet, but they were too inquisitive. They wondered why he was holding the musket that one of the keepers had fetched, and they were even more curious when they saw the corpse on the ground.

Nicholas watched it all from the apex of the roof, knowing that time was running out for him. Every means of escape has been cut off. The gable windows below him were either locked or guarded by keepers. It was only a matter of time before someone was brave enough to come after him. Nicholas might be able to dodge, or ward off, a dagger but he had no protection against a musket ball. Someone who could handle a gun could easily pick him off. Beechcroft may have fled in panic but his partner was still in charge, and there was no point in trying to reason with him. Olgrave wanted him dead.

Nicholas soon had vivid proof of the fact. A man emerged from one of the gable windows and pulled himself up with care onto the roof. Nicholas was close enough to discern the musket that was slung from his shoulder. He suspected that the keeper would have a pistol in his belt as well. All that he could do was to scramble as far away as he could. The man, meanwhile, groped his way up to the apex of the roof and sat astride it. He could now see his prey, moving away from him in the gloom. He reached for the musket. Nicholas looked back and saw the weapon being levelled at him. Flattening himself on the tiles, he tried to present as small a target as he could.