‘Who?’
‘Alderman Hornbeam and Squire Riddick and Sheriff Doye.’
‘Who did they take away?’
‘My Jerry – and he’s going to be flogged!’
‘Calm yourself. Come with me to my room.’ He led her through the doorway. ‘Sit down. I’ll make you some tea. Take a deep breath and tell me all about it.’
She told him the story while he put a kettle on the fire and assembled tea leaves, a pot, milk and sugar. He made her tea extra sweet, to give her strength. What she said disturbed him. Hornbeam was moving against the Socratic Society despite Spade’s precautions.
When she had finished he said: ‘Fifty lashes! That’s outrageous. This isn’t the navy.’ Fifty lashes was not punishment, it was torture. Hornbeam wanted to terrify people. He was fanatically determined to stop Kingsbridge workers educating themselves.
‘What am I going to do?’
‘You must visit Jerry in jail.’
‘Will they let me?’
‘I’ll speak to the jailer, George Gilmore, they call him Gil. He’ll let you in. Just give him a shilling.’
‘Oh, thank God, at least I can see Jerry.’
‘Take him some hot food and a flagon of ale. That will help keep his spirits up.’
‘All right.’ Susan was looking a little brighter. Being able to do something for Jeremiah had braced her.
Now he had to make her misery worse. ‘He will also need an old pair of trousers and a wide leather belt.’
She frowned. ‘Why?’
It had to be said. ‘The trousers will be shredded by the whip. The belt is to protect his kidneys.’ Some men pissed blood for weeks. Some never recovered.
‘Oh, God,’ Susan cried again, more softly now, in grief rather than panic.
Spade asked the question that weighed heavily on his mind. ‘Did they say who informed against your husband?’
‘No.’
‘Any hint?’
‘No.’
Spade nodded. It had to be someone on the committee. There were two or three possibilities, but he thought the likeliest was Alf Nash. There was something shifty about that dairyman.
I’ll find out, he thought grimly.
Susan hardly cared who the traitor was. She was thinking of her husband. ‘I’ll take him a stew of bacon and beans,’ she said. ‘His mother used to make that for him.’ She stood up. ‘Thank you, Spade.’
‘Give him my best...’ Spade did not know how to finish the sentence. Wishes? Regards? Blessings? ‘Best love,’ he said.
‘I will.’
She left, still grief-stricken but calmer now and resolute. Spade returned to his loom and mulled over the news as he operated the machine. If the Socratic Society needed print work in the future he would have to use a different printer, one out of the reach of the Kingsbridge justices, probably in Combe.
He did not get much work done before he was interrupted again, this time by his sister, Kate, wearing a canvas apron with pins stuck in it. ‘Can you come to the house?’ she said. ‘Someone to see you.’
‘Who?’
