Midnight bells rang far off in the midst of London’s slumber. Wary and alone Maryanne Stewart pushed herself to walk faster past Marble Arch toward her home on Connaught Square. She was almost there.
“Stand and deliver, Madame!”
Startled by the demand in a rich ringing baritone, Maryanne turned in the fog to find that there was no one there, she was completely alone.
The streetlights on Bayswater Road glowed like warm fuzzy fireflies in the thick hanging fog. The light they shed barley made it to the sidewalk below them. So thick was the murky night that she could barely see across the road to Hyde Park. She shivered and pulled her muffler closer to her chin and turned to walk on.
As she crossed Edgeware Road to the little traffic island a vaporous figure emerged before her in a swirling black cape and a three-cornered hat. If sky blue were flames, he carried them within his eyes. What burned there was all that was visible of his face above the black silk kerchief that covered his nose and mouth. He held two Pirlet flintlock pistols aimed right at her heart. Maryanne’s mouth flapped open to emit only a chilled gasp.
The man took two steps toward her, lowered his guns and laughed. “I will do thee no harm Milady, nor shall I take thy coin purse or jewels. Such beauty as you hold within your face makes a beggar of any man you look upon. Believe it honest and true, I have never clapped eyes upon, nor am I likely ever again to behold such a woman as you in this life or the next.” His devilish eyes fell to her mouth. “What I will take with great pleasure and at any cost be it gold or the hangman’s noose is a kiss from those perfect lips.” He doffed his hat and gave her a courtly bow.
Maryanne looked him up and down then narrowed her eyes. “Get out of my way!” She took a swipe at him with her tote bag and to her surprise it sliced though him creating a rolling wave of vapor which slowly and amazingly found its way back into his form She looked from side to side to see if she were truly alone and the only person on the street to witness this apparition. A bus trundled past with only the driver on board.
The man pulled his kerchief down around his neck to reveal a face unsurpassed in the realm of male splendor. He leveled his gaze upon her and gave her a dazzling smile. “If not a kiss, then what say you to a midnight ride with me on the back of my horse Black Bess?”
“Look here Mr. Ghost, I am tired, and I want to go home. Besides hasn’t anyone told you it is not only very rude to frighten people but also quite out of fashion. Now if you will excuse me?” She stepped boldly forward and walked right through him. Half a block down the street she looked back. He was gone.
Along Stanhope Place Maryanne heard the clip clop of horse’s hoofs. She turned her head slowly to the left. There following along on the street was the apparition and its horse, the huge beast snorted, and its eyes glowed with the banked embers of hell. Black Bess no doubt. Once again, the specter doffed his hat and bowed from the saddle. Maryanne sighed and turned her nose into the air and walked on. Black Bess and her master kept pace. When she reached number 20 Connaught Square, she unlocked the front door and stepped inside. As she shut the door on the street, she saw that he was still astride his horse in the middle of the street, watching her house with those eyes. Incredible eyes they were she had to admit with a slight shiver and a smile to herself. That night she kept the lamp on beside her bed.
By morning she had convinced herself that the entire thing had been a dream. On her way to Selfridges for a bit of shopping she came to the traffic island where she had seen the ghost the night before. As she waited with the morning crowd for the light to change an odd feeling came over her. She turned around. In the center of the island there was a plaque. She had steeped over hundreds of times without ever reading it. Round and set flush with the sidewalk it simply read: “Site of Tyburn Tree”. She covered her mouth with both hands in shock. Of course, Tyburn, the place where criminals where hung in the 17th and 18th centuries. Among the many who swung from the three-cornered gallows was the Highwayman who rode a horse called Black Bess. What was his name? Her mind reeled as she shut her eyes and his face appeared once more before her. Of course! His name was Dick Turpin the most famous Highwayman of them all. And on this very spot, April 7, 1739 by His Majesty George II order Dick Turpin was hung until dead.
For the rest of her life when she walked alone Dick Turpin always gave Maryanne Stewart safe passage home. Whether she noticed him or not, she never made mention to anyone.
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