Turning the Stones Read Online Free Page A

curse would not be worth a tinker’s dam.
    As I wrenched the last stone in the direction of the devil, didn’t it seem to me that it let out a groan – but whether of horror or of sorrow I could not say. But I will tell you that it frightened me to hear that cry. Impossible it was to know if the stone was in sympathy with my loss or if it lamented being brought to such vindictive work.

Night Coach to Reading, Berkshire

April, 1766
    We have arrived at the Saracen’s Head, a few furlongs, I am told, out of Slough. As we passed beneath the inn’s swinging sign, I caught a glimpse of a forbidding image painted on its boards, an Arab whose turban was pinned with a sickle moon, before the sign knocked off the leveret-keeper’s hat. The rest of us were obliged to duck before we turned into the yard to avoid a braining. Peeping over the rail, I see no sign of a burly overcoated watchman with his lantern. I am thankful to note that the further we travel from London, the less prevalent are these apprehenders, but I do not come into the yard of an inn without flinching.
    Two lads have run out from the dark tavern to cheer our change with a tray of cold sausages and a bucket of spirits. I sacrifice one of the pennies in my moneybag in order to purchase a cup of gin. I hope that it will help to soften the bolus of anxieties that is jammed in my chest, but I have swallowed only a mouthful of it when someone jogs my arm and the gin spills in my lap. A youth begs my pardon. Where has he come from? I don’t remember his climbing on board at the last stage. He seems to feel the heat of my stare, because he turns up his collar, pulls down his hat and pretends to fall into a doze.
    As I am about to throw down my cup to the lad in the yard, my line of sight is drawn to two men some yards behind him, who appear on horseback from under the covered entranceway. Fearfully I shrink down on the roof and draw my scarf over my head. The men dismount and turn their pale faces towards the coach and it seems to me that they are watching the two or three disembarking passengers. Then the men lead their horses to the water trough on the perimeter of the yard. Is it possible for me to say at this distance that one of them is similar in build to the footman who pursued me in London?
    But if he were the footman, he would have had me brought from the coach at this pause. Or do they mean not to have me arrested at all, but to take me off at a lonely spot on the dark road and, and …? You see how I go spinning into a helix of conjecture and consequence that brings the sweat to my armpits and a lurch to my heart, while forgetting that this is entirely my own speculation.
    But now one of the watching men does begin to make his way towards the Demon and my panicked thought is that I must get off this coach! But how? The way is blocked by the gasping leveret-keeper, who is climbing ponderously aboard by way of the hind boot, where the wool bales are stacked. He swings around and plumps down his huge arse so that he is facing the rear of the coach and settles his pannier on his knees again. And suddenly, with a resumption of our jinglings and creakings, we are off!
    There is a shout from below. The footman, if it is he, has missed his chance.
    I crouch behind the great slab of the leveret-keeper’s back,grateful for his bulk. And rolling on into the blue night, I allow myself to sneak a look at the receding road. I have every expectation of an approach by those cloaked horsemen, but the Demon continues on its rickety way with no one in pursuit. At length I begin to breathe more easily. I turn to gaze at the quiet beauty of the sky – it is thick with stars and wads of silver clouds. Soon I will be on a fast coach to Bristol and away on the tides to freedom.
    But all at once the wretched Demon lumbers to a stop.
    We have arrived at the foot of a sticky rise that resists our progress and we are called to get down in order to relieve the horses. They stand