Hellish Fiends, and Brutish Men

The rain, which arrived on Wednesday evening, carried on a biting easterly and persisted throughout the following day. By Thursday at suppertime, news of the cancellation of the Gloucester Diligence had been received without complaint.

    George Tolley, Landlord of the Quiet Woman, listened as the rain lashed against the inn’s windows. In the hearth, a fire popped and flared. A group of men gathered around a table, drank ale, and shared ribald jokes.

    Bess, the landlord’s black-eyed daughter, studied the group warily. She glanced up as Richard Ferguson, the stableboy, entered the inn, warmed himself in front of the fire, and retook his leave after exchanging a quick word with a patron. 

    The Parson, Reverend Beebe, an infirm man of uncertain age, did as he had been proposing for the better part of an hour, and levered himself from his seat near the fire, pulled on his coat and made his way to the inn’s door. He had confided to the landlord that Lord Culverhouse, the unctuous resident of Audley Manor, had summoned him on a matter of ‘the greatest delicacy’.

    The landlord wished the Parson a goodnight and shut the door behind him. ‘A matter of the greatest delicacy,’ he repeated archly to the room.

    Ned Dormer, usually bellicose, and always red of face, looked up from his half-finished tankard of ale. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘If he were of the Papist faith I’d hope for the last rites.’

    Tolley lifted his eyebrow but said nothing. He had little love for Lord Culverhouse, but disliked Ned Dormer for his intemperate outbursts when deep in his cups. For the moment Ned was sober, but George knew that the situation was unlikely to last. 

    Edward Gantt regarded Dormer coolly. He curled his hand round his tankard, as if fearful someone should take it from him. ‘What I hear,’ he began slowly. ‘Is that the Dunsdons will soon have company.’

    Tolley had crossed the room to the fire and fed the flames another log. He half-turned as he heard Gantt speak. ‘Oh, yes?’ He said nonchalantly.

    Gantt finished his drink and looked pleadingly at the landlord’s daughter. Gantt nodded. The front room of the inn had fallen quiet on mention of the Dunsdons.

    ‘Aye,’ Gantt added, nodding his gratitude as Bess furnished him with fresh ale. ‘His lordship is entertaining.’

    George Tolley had finished with the fire and straightened up. ‘Aye, a cousin from London.’

    ‘May be that he is from London,’ Gantt replied. ‘But as to him being a cousin is more doubtful.’ He downed the ale, some of the ale dribbled down his chin, he wiped his chin dry with a sleeve. ‘And there were more than one visitor.’

    ‘Go on,’ the landlord urged.

    Gantt looked about him as if about to impart a great secret. ‘Some gentlemen from London.’

    ‘There was a carriage. This morning.’ A man emerged from the inn’s parlour. He had been engaged in a game of dice; the game had paused while he fetched more ale. ‘Tilly Cooper saw them.’ He leaned on the wall of the inn. ‘Proper gentlemen, Tilly called them.’

    ‘I heard they were Redbreasts,’ a second dice player volunteered, appearing behind the first man. 

    Tolley glanced from Gantt towards the two men at the parlour door. ‘Runners?’ He said. ‘Plenty work for them in London, ain’t there, though?’

    Gantt, a farm labourer from the Hollybank estate a mile west of Audley, nodded his agreement. ‘Otherwise, they could start at the Bird-in-Hand, their prices are akin to robbery.’ Gantt’s comment brought laughter from a couple of the inn’s customers.  

    The fellow who mentioned the rumours about the Bow Street Runners visiting Audley Manor, said, ‘it was only four nights ago that Mr. Tupper was held up on the Downs Road.’

    Gantt nodded. ‘Only get dead cargo from Henry Tupper,’ he remarked. Gantt had worked for Tupper for a time; despite being one of the wealthiest men in the area, he dressed like a pauper and resented spending money, whether on himself or wages for his employees.

    ‘I expect Tupper asked for change,’ someone opined.

    ‘I heard they gave him a lacing,’ Tolley noted. ‘If someone pulls a barking iron on me, I reckon I’d give up my purse.’

    Gantt drained his tankard. ‘A muckworm; he values his purse more than his life.’ He leaned back in his chair and looked around the inn. ‘And that gentlemen, is time to say a-doo.’ He stood up from his chair and placed a hand on the table to steady himself. The dice players had returned to the parlour and their game.

    He peered out the window and fastened his coat about. Outside, the rain continued to fall, and the wind swirled; near the window, a candle guttered. Gantt turned and faced the room, he lived at the edge of the village on a jumblegut lane, a mere stone’s throw from the inn, yet the idea of sitting back down and enjoying more ale was appealing.

    Edward Gantt yanked the inn’s door open, and with a sigh, stepped out into the deluge.

    For the moment a companionable silence had fallen over the Quiet Woman. George Tolley looked up at the low ceiling of the inn as a guest clumped heavily across the floor in one of the upstairs rooms.

    ‘Mr. Holborn,’ Bess confided in a low voice to her father. ‘He was reluctant to stay the night.’ She looked round as Richard Ferguson returned from the stables.

    ‘He wants to get to Oxford,’ Richard said. The stable boy sat at a table in an ill-lit corner of the inn; Bess placed a bowl of galimaufrey and a tankard of porter in front of him.  

    ‘Wants to hire the post-chaise,’ he continued between mouthfuls of the leftovers.

    George Tolley returned from the parlour with an empty tankard, he looked at Richard, he had employed the boy the autumn before and didn’t wholly trust him. ‘What’s his rush?’

    Richard shrugged. ‘Didn’t ask.’ He glanced at Bess, ‘Audley’s a bit quiet for him perhaps.’

    ‘Looked like he’d have been more suited to the manor,’ George said. Holborn had arrived the day before, with the rain. A smartly-dressed man. A thin, wan face and hands that were unaccustomed to work. A servant had accompanied him, thick-set with a thuggish appearance, whose presence had unnerved Bess.

    Holborn had remained ensconced in his room for most of the day, taking his meals there and only venturing out twice to inquire about a coach to Oxford. Bess disliked the man and his oleaginous manner, in stark contrast to his servant, the rough-hewn Algernon Spiker. 

    At that moment, the door of the Quiet Woman opened, and the aforementioned Algernon Spiker entered the inn. George Tolley looked up ‘hello, Mr. Spiker,’ he said. 

    Spiker took off his coat and folded it over his arm, his hair was plastered to his head by the incessant rain. He looked around the inn, his face as stormy as the weather. ‘Landlord,’ he responded evenly. ‘Been taking the air,’ he added, his voice matched his appearance perfectly, the words sounding forced rather than spoken.

     Even Ned Dormer’s attention was on Algernon Spiker rather than his ale. He watched Spiker stride across the inn and thunder up the stairs to Mr. Holborn’s room. 

     There was the sound of a door being shut firmly, more heavy steps stamped across the floor above the inn, and then silence.

     Ned Dormer finished his drink; the presence of Algernon Spiker so perturbed him that he forgot to give his usual satisfied belch. Still quite sober, Dormer got to his feet, put his coat on, drained the dregs from his tankard, and with barely a word to anyone, headed out into the night.  

Glossary

A muckworm – a miser

Jumblegut Lane – a rough road or lane

A lacing.          – a beating

Galimaufrey   – a hodgepodge of leftovers

Barking iron – a pistol

Dead Cargo – disapointing pickings

Source: Regency Slang Revealed by Louise Allen

   ©Mark Young 2025