Dick Turpin began his working life as a butcher. He did not last long in that career before he used his knowledge of butchery to join a gang of cattle thieves. From there, he moved to robbery. Vicious robbery against the poor, having once poured boiling water on an elderly victim, once murdered a servant who caught him and, at least once, raped a woman of the household.
From there, he became a highwayman, but only briefly, quitting after he killed his own partner-in-crime during a “botched” robbery. He then moved to horse theft and went to jail—under another name—for shooting a chicken. While in jail, a former teacher allegedly recognized his handwriting, and Turpin was then tried for his crimes.
The only mourners at his funeral were paid—by him. He was no folk hero. When his story did appear in papers, he was clearly a villain, and only a minor one at that.
By the time Nicolas was in England, Dick Turpin had passed from memory, only to be resurrected by William Harrison Ainsworth, who may have based hisRookwoodversion on early nineteenth-century ballads about the highwayman.
“That is most disappointing,” Nicolas says as I finish explaining.
I set the phone aside. “I did not have any particular attachment to the man’s story, and it is best to know the truth. I would hardly wish to use him as a minor character now.”
“Unless he was a villain.”
I shrug. “Perhaps not even then. I believe it is best to let Dick Turpin fade into the obscurity he so richly deserves. However, I still have a ghost who is most anxious to steal a clock associated with Mr. Turpin.”
I pick up the phone again. “I would like to research the clock further. I presume this device can do so.” I peer at it. “Ah-ha. There is a place that says, ‘Search.’ That could be a clue.”
“It might be.”
We smile at each other. I type “Dick Turpin” into that spot and hit what looks like a magnifying glass. What I see is the screen I witnessed on the helpful student’s phone. I press one of the lines, as he did, and it returns me to the article I just read.
“Excellent,” I say. “Now, let me see what I can find on that clock.”
After ten minutes of searching, I have my answer... which is that I can find nothing more than I read on the museum display. In fact, most of it is the exact same wording and includes a reference to the museum display.
“Apparently, I am cheating,” I say. “And Fate is most displeased. She wishes me to do this the old-fashioned way.”
“By speaking to the young man’s ghost? I believe that is not simply the old-fashioned way but the far more interesting way.”
“True. At least now we know the truth behind Dick Turpin. If this young man is connected to him, he is not the gallant rogue one might hope. Sadly. I suggest—”
A knock sounds at the door.
“That would be breakfast,” Nicolas says. “Shall we dine and then return to the museum?”
When I hesitate, his lips curve in a slow smile. “Dine, rest and return to the museum?”
“Resting is very important.”
“I agree most heartily. I only did not wish to delay the adventure.”
“It is the sort we can confidently delay another hour or two.”
“Then let me bring in breakfast, and we shall begin by restoring our energy.”
9
We stay abed longer than we intend, owing to the realization that we cannot go to the museum before my appointment to turn over the gladius. With the security precautions, I can hardly walk in carrying it, even in its lined and locked box. Bronwyn had foreseen this, and the curator who will take the gladius is meeting us outside at two.
Yes, I am quite certain this is not the way one usually donates an artifact of such value. The problem, of course, is that it has come from the past far more literally than most. I have also come from the past, which makes it impossible for me to prove who I am and that I have the right to donate this item.
That is where Bronwyn comes in. As a historian, she has the contacts needed to smooth this transaction. According to our story, my family has had this sword for generations, and I realize it ought to have been donated long ago. To avoid any embarrassment to my relatives, I wish to remain anonymous but will hand it over in person, as a show of good faith, with the understanding they will need to verify that it is neither fake nor pillage. It is still far from the normal method, but the gladius is significant enough—and Bronwyn is respected enough—to allow it.
I could have had Bronwyn take it herself but... I struggle with what I am doing. I will grieve for this sword. It is not only a beautiful weapon, but it was a gift from Nicolas. An off-hand gift, from an impulsive and generous man to someone who seemed as if she might appreciate such a sword. That was before we realized we would be more to one another than passing acquaintances.
I want to keep the gladius. Ilongto keep it. I have told myself there is no reason I cannot keep it until I am old and gray and donate it in my will. But knowing the significance of it, as Nicolas did not, I cannot do so in good conscience. Nicolas and I believe in doing the right thing, making the right choices, and even if he would not judge me, I would judge myself. So to the museum it goes, and I will return to this time and visit it in the museum, where it belongs.
Before we leave, I take the gladius out of its case and wield it in a few drills while Nicolas watches from the bed. I know how to use this sword. I have been training for years, with no intention of it being anything more than exercise far more exciting than brisk walking. That changed when I visited Nicolas’s time, and as he watches, I ask for the expert observations and advice he could never presume to give without request. By the time I finish, I breathe rapidly with the delicious exhilaration of exertion.