Thomas turned into Love Lane, and walked to the shop. He stood outside it, gazing, unseeing, at the new oak door. Polly, Lucy, Margaret — where were they? Had they come to harm? Abraham and Jane murdered, Oxford gaol, Rush, Fayne, surely not all just to find his family dead too. Yet that was the war — thousands of individual tragedies adding up to one collective disaster. More than six thousand individuals had died at Newbury alone. How many more Newburys would there be?
A black cat ran across the street and brushed against Thomas’s leg. He shuddered at its touch. If the war had affected the mind of a man as lacking in superstition as he, would the shadows and shapes of Oxford stay with him for ever? Unthinkingly, he made his way to the river, and strolled downstream until he came to the place from where he used to fish. There the bank was low, a line of willows growing along it, and the river running faster as it narrowed. It was his favourite spot for catching the fat brown trout that lurked under the overhang of the bank. Ripples on the water glinted in the darkness, and he could almost see the fish waiting to be caught. With his rod and line and a few flies, he would have had his breakfast in no time. A pair of juicy trout sizzling in the pan and eaten with slices of new bread and Margaret’s butter. A king’s breakfast.
The first glimmerings of dawn were in the sky. Thomas retraced his steps to Love Lane. Still the bookshop was locked up. What else did he expect? The letters had frightened Margaret and she had taken the girls somewhere safer. If she had been in Romsey, someone would have known where. But where had she gone? Their friends were all Romsey people, and they had no family elsewhere. She would not have taken the children to an inn, and after their experience on the day Simon had arrived, she would not have taken them anywhere held by soldiers of Parliament.
Then it occurred to him. Andrew Taylor’s sister lived in Winchester. She and Margaret had kept in touch for a while after Andrew’s death. Winchester — Royalist-held, a decent road and no more than twelve miles away. There was every chance that she had gone to Winchester, and he had better get there as quickly as he could. In any event, it would be better than wandering around Romsey, unable to open his own door or sleep in his own bed. He should have thought of it yesterday.
Despite the hour, he woke the landlord of the Romsey Arms and persuaded him to arrange for a horse to be saddled and ready. The prospect of doing something positive lifted Thomas’s spirits, and he was soon on the road to Winchester. It was a cool, dry morning, and he would be there well before noon. He remembered Emily’s house in the middle of the town. It would be an excellent place for Margaret and the girls to stay — spacious and comfortable — and, if he was not mistaken, very near a fine inn. He would find them there, stay the night and return with them to Romsey the following day.
He was less than halfway to Winchester when the horse threw a shoe. Thomas dismounted at once, inspected the hoof, cursed his ill luck, took up the reins and led the horse on. They would have to walk to the next inn or farrier, which would probably be in the village of Hursley, three or four miles on. The road was too stony to take risks, so progress would be slow.
Slow it was, and Thomas became increasingly impatient. Any thought of arriving by midday was abandoned, and by the time they reached Hursley he was beginning to wonder if they would even make Winchester before dark.
A coach stood outside the Shepherd and Flock in Hursley. Had it been going to Winchester, it would have passed Thomas on the road. So unless he could persuade its passengers to turn round and go back where they had come from, it would be no use to him. He led the horse to the smithy behind the inn, asked for it to be reshod as quickly as possible and went in search of refreshment.
The coach party were sitting at a table in the inn — two men facing the door, and two ladies with their backs to it. The coachmen, both armed, sat at a separate table. ‘A tankard of ale, please,’ said Thomas to a man wiping down tables, ‘and some bread and cheese.’ From the corner of his eye, he saw the men in the coach party look up at the sound of his voice, and one of the ladies turn to inspect the new arrival. For a second or two, she stared at him, then rose suddenly from her seat and launched herself across the room. She threw her arms around his neck and held on as if her life depended upon it. Eventually he was able gently to ease her off. He put his hands on her shoulders and held her at arm’s length. Tears were pouring down her cheeks. He was weeping and laughing at the same time. ‘Good Lord, Margaret,’ he managed, ‘this is not quite where I had expected to find you.’ Unable to speak, Margaret nodded and smiled. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To Romsey,’ she whispered, wiping away a tear.
‘And where are the girls?’
‘At Emily’s house.’
‘I thought they might be. I was on my way there. Are they well?’
‘Quite well. And you, Thomas, are you well?’
‘Well enough, thank you. And relieved to be home. Or almost home.’
In reply, Margaret started sobbing again. ‘I’m sorry, Thomas,’ she said, ‘it’s just such a relief to see you.’ She studied him. ‘You look well. A little thinner, perhaps, and the beard will have to go, but otherwise well.’
Margaret’s travelling companions had been watching with interest, wondering if this could be a prodigal husband. ‘Does this mean you will be travelling on with us, madam,’ asked one of the men, ‘or returning to Winchester?’
‘My apologies,’ she replied. ‘This is my brother, Thomas Hill, whom I haven’t seen for some weeks.’ Thomas bowed politely. ‘Well, brother,’ she went on, ‘Winchester or Romsey? Which shall it be?’
After some discussion, it was agreed that Thomas would follow behind the coach to Romsey, and Margaret would set off again to Winchester the next day. That would give them the chance to talk before the girls demanded all Thomas’s attention, and enable Margaret to prepare them for their uncle’s return.
While his horse was being shod, Thomas sat beside Margaret and ate his bread and cheese. When she asked about the cuts on his neck and around his eye, he said merely that he would tell her everything later. She explained that they had been living with Emily for a month, and that she was making her second trip to ensure that the shop was secure and all was in order.
‘It’s certainly secure,’ he said. ‘Even the owner can’t get in.’
The bookshop was indeed in order. Thomas’s quills, ink and papers stood on his writing table, the shelves were tidy and the floor swept. Margaret told him to sit while she fetched something from her bedroom. She returned with a handful of letters. ‘There are six of them. The last one arrived two weeks ago. They were all pushed under the door at night, for me to find in the morning. Read them, please.’
It did not take Thomas long. They were short letters, and very much to the point, each one more threatening than the one before. Their message was the same. In time of war, a young widow and her daughters were not safe alone, and should take particular care. Who knew what awful things might otherwise happen to them? Who knew what vile ideas might enter the heads of drunken soldiers? The letters were all in the same hand, and unsigned. Thomas looked up. ‘Are these why you took the girls away?’
‘Yes. I thought they’d be safer.’
‘You were probably wise. However, I know why these letters were written, and I know who was behind them. The writer himself is actually of no account. It was the man who composed them who was dangerous.’
‘Was?’
‘Happily, yes.’ It took Thomas over an hour to relate the story. He told Margaret about Tobias Rush, and about Abraham’s death. He missed out the worst of the gaol, and left a certain amount unsaid about Jane Romilly. Otherwise, his account was full and accurate. ‘So,’ he ended, ‘there is nothing now to be frightened of. The girls can come home, and we can reopen the shop. Tobias Rush is dead. The king himself saw his body.’