Because there was no more beyond that. Nothing written by Jack’s hand, at any rate, although the person who had edited the memoirs had inserted this parenthesised apology:
Jack Butler’s own account ends here. What follows is the Reverend Mr Simon’s learned lecture on the usefulness of this account in teaching moral lessons to those young men who are tempted to pursue the ways of decadence, for let them be reminded that Jack Butler, having turned his back on both his earthly king and on that other King who rules all men, did thus commit himself to suffer an untimely end; and such an end as does befit a traitor to the Crown, for it was on the very first great anniversary of the accession to the throne of that good King George the First, whom he did so despise and seek to overthrow, that he did chance to fall afoul of the lawmen of Polgelly, and while fleeing from their constable was killed by one sure pistol shot and sent thus in disgrace before his Maker.
‘No.’
I didn’t know I’d spoken till I heard my own voice echo in the silent room, but even as the echo died I knew it didn’t matter.
Daniel had been right. The words were written there already, printed long before my birth, and there was no amount of wishing that could change them.
‘Hard luck,’ was Oliver’s opinion of the way Jack Butler met his end. Head tilted, he tried to remember his history. ‘If it happened on the anniversary of King George’s accession to the throne, then that would mean he died in …’
‘August. August 1st, to be exact,’ I said. ‘I looked it up.’
‘Ah.’ Leaning on the corner of the desk in Uncle George’s study, Oliver angled a penetrating look down at me while I worked. It was Saturday, and he’d come up to help with cleaning windows at the greenhouse in advance of next week’s opening, but somehow he had found his way in here instead. I didn’t mind. His company was welcome in my current mood.
He said, ‘You’ve really taken this to heart, haven’t you? Maybe I shouldn’t have found you that book.’
I couldn’t reveal why the knowledge of Jack’s death depressed me as much as it did. All I said was, ‘It just seems unfair, his being killed like that.’
‘Come have lunch,’ he suggested.
‘I can’t. I’ve got this press release to finish.’ Searching through the papers at the side of my computer I let out a tight sigh of frustration. ‘If I ever find my proper notes. You don’t remember, offhand, what the name of that big prize was that Trelowarth won back in the 1960s, do you?’
‘Sorry, no. Mark would know it, but he won’t be back till late tonight.’
I glanced up. ‘Back from where?’
‘From Falmouth. He and Fee are at the art show.’
‘Mark went with her?’ I stared at him. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘that’s the first time I’ve seen you smile all day.’
‘Is it? Sorry. I’ve just been a little out of sorts, that’s all.’
‘Susan might know what the name of the prize was,’ he said. ‘I’ll go ask her. I ought to be out at the greenhouse now, anyway.’ Straightening, he told me, ‘Sue will be happy, at least, with the way your Jack Butler died. Adds a bit of drama to her story of the smugglers, for the tourists. Just as well, because I still can’t find anything to tie the Duke of Ormonde and his Jacobite rebellion to this area. Mind you,’ he said, ‘it wasn’t much of a rebellion to begin with. Never really got off the ground. The Duke of Ormonde buggered off to France before it happened. He knew Parliament had voted to impeach him and he didn’t wait around to be arrested.’
I couldn’t really blame him, and I said as much. And then I asked, more slowly, ‘Did he go to Spain, afterwards?’
‘He did, yeah. Why?’
‘I just wondered.’ I wondered, too, whether he’d brought any kinsmen along on the voyage, to help raise support for the Jacobite cause.
Oliver remarked that when people like the Duke of Ormonde fell, they landed firmly on their feet. ‘And they always choose warm places for their exiles. Spanish women, Spanish wine, I’m sure it wasn’t any hardship. It was those he left behind him here in Cornwall did the suffering.’
I didn’t really want to ask him, but I had to. ‘Why? What happened to them?’
‘Well, they were arrested, weren’t they? King George learnt what they were up to, and he had them rounded up before they had a chance to rise. They had to watch King James land up in Scotland, watch him lose his battle, couldn’t do a thing to help him. Some were executed, afterwards, and some transported to the colonies, and—’ He broke off, looking at me. ‘You all right?’
‘I’m fine.’ I schooled my face and looked away. ‘You said King George found out what they were planning. How?’
‘The Duke of Ormonde sent his private secretary down here as a messenger – a Scottish colonel, can’t recall his name. McSomething, anyway.’
‘Maclean.’
I could have told him that the man had used the alias of Wilson; could have told him what he’d looked like, that he’d worn a dark-green coat and powdered wig and high black boots, and that his horse had been a grey. I could have told him that Jack Butler hadn’t liked him much; that Jack had nearly lost his life in going to St Non’s to make enquiries as to Wilson’s true identity, and that he’d learnt that Wilson’s name was actually Maclean. I’d been there when Jack had told us that, when Daniel had assured him that Maclean was ‘indisputably’ a man to trust. The Duke of Ormonde’s secretary.