garb
merging with the darkness to make him virtually invisible. He tightened his
hold on the pamphlets beneath his coat.
Evidently,
the men had not long come from a tavern. One of them paused to relieve himself
against a wall and broke wind loudly at the same time. The others walked on a
few paces then stopped. They were close enough to him for Thorpe to smell the
ale on their breath and to hear their low whispers.
'Let
us go back,' urged one. 'The nightwatchman is alone again.'
'It
is too dangerous,' said another.
'Not
if the old man is asleep.'
'We
may not be so lucky this time.'
'Then
we make our own luck,' insisted the first man, fingering the cudgel under his
belt. 'We put him to sleep. One blow will be enough. We could steal every stone
from Baynard's Castle before he woke up again.'
'No,
I am against it.'
'Are
you turning coward?'
'You
know me better than that.'
'Then
why hold back?'
'If
we harm the old man, a hue and cry will be raised.'
'Hours
later - when we are well away. I say we do it.'
'Do
what?' asked the third man, lumbering over to them.
'Go
back again. One more time.'
'Yes,'
agreed the newcomer. 'Take all we can and fill the boat. We have never had such
easy pickings. The bricks and timber are there for the taking. The house even
has its own jetty. What could be better?'
They
rehearsed their plans for a few minutes then linked arms before moving off.
Jesus-Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe was in a quandary. Wanting to challenge them and
denounce them for their sinfulness, he was realistic enough to see the folly of
such an action. They would respond with violence. His wife wanted her husband
at her side, not lying in a pool of blood in a dark street. Yet Thorpe was
impelled to take some action. Everything about the three men offended his
sensibilities. A feeling of outrage coursed through him. He watched them go
then stepped out of his hiding place. Keeping to the shadows, he trailed them
carefully as they made their way towards the ruins of Baynard's Castle.
The
nightwatchman was hopelessly confused. When the theft was first discovered, he
was all but accused by Samuel Littlejohn of being a party to the crime yet
twelve hours later, as he came on duty again, the old man was given a handsome
apology by the builder and a large flagon of beer by the architect. It made him
resolve to discharge his office with more care that night.
Good
intentions were not enough. Loneliness soon began to peck away at his
resolution and fatigue slowly set in. He tried to stave off the latter by
walking around the site and checking that all was well but his legs quickly
tired and his lids began to droop. The flagon of beer was inevitably pressed
into service. The first few swigs revived him for a while and he was confident
that he could, after all, remain awake at his post all night. He allowed
himself one more long drink. It was fatal.
Watching
him from the bottom of the garden, the three thieves were growing restless.
They had been there for well over an hour now. It was a starlit night and they
had a good view of the whole site. They could see the night- watchman in dark
profile, lifting the flagon to his lips.
The
man with the cudgel took it out in readiness.
'The
old fool will never go to sleep!' he grumbled.
'We
cannot wait much longer,' said a second man.
'We'll
not wait at all. I'll knock him out.'
'Hold!'
advised the third man. 'I think he is going to lie down.'
The
nightwatchman could no longer maintain the pretence of being diligent. It was
good beer and its seductive taste could not be resisted. He emptied the whole
flagon. By the time he discarded it, he was barely able to sit upright on his
bench. A short nap was urgently required. Summoning up the last of his
strength, he hauled himself off the bench and staggered across to a pile of
soft earth, dug from the ground to create space for the cellars. It made an
inviting bed. No sooner had he stretched himself on its gentle gradient than he
fell asleep.