The Sea Officer Bentley Thrillers

by Jan Needle

  “Aye, that’s true enough, I can’t gainsay it. And you mean Slack Dickie’s worse than most of them, but still we must have men like him? One thing — he takes far less than most! In terms of sailors craving for their homes, Richard’s a benefactor, almost!” He sobered rapidly. “But still, Will, there’s a man was murdered, and — ”

  “Maybe,” said Will. “Sam, I would have said an’ I’d been sure, and so would you. Slack Dickie said the man attacked him, and the gun was cocked. I think — we think… But we can’t be sure. And let’s say Oxforde had worked that out, and all. What do? Admit Lieutenant Kaye’s a murderer? Have him strung up? It feels dirty, Sam, God knows it does. But… Sam, we’ll never know.”

  “So many things we’ll never know,” Holt muttered. “Blood, Will, in the past two months the teeth of my blind faith, my faith in honesty and reason… well, even Annette called me tedious in her bed last night, she stopped my mouth to stop me droning on. But look at where we’re going now, and why, and what we must find out. God, even gentle smuggling, that you at least think no worse than usury, is — Will? What’s going on up yonder?”

  Ahead of them, as they followed round a curve, there was a group of people, some on horseback, some on foot. It was a road they knew, not above a mile from Langham, the crossroads marked by an ancient turkey-oak with huge, spread branches. There was something dangling from a limb, an awful, characteristic shape that twisted on itself as the group milled round about it. It was a makeshift gibbet, with a hanging man, and they both stopped involuntarily, disquiet rising in them.

  “It’s Tony!” said Sam, suddenly. “Look, he’s seen us!”

  Not the corpse, but a man on horseback, Will realised with surging relief. Sir A’s steward wheeled, and spurred towards them. There were others of the baronet’s retainers also there, he recognised.

  “Sirs,” said Tony. “There’s some poor fellow here’s been strung up like a scarecrow. Not above three hours since. I fear you know him.” “What?” said Will, incredulous. “But — ”

  But Sam had dug his heels, with Tony twisting his horse to follow him. As Will came up on them Sam had stopped, but he did not dismount. Despite the congestion of the face, eyes bulging out in blackened cheeks, a tip of tongue jammed out from the strained mouth, Will knew the man immediately. His wrists were tied in front of him, his breeches soiled. It was John Hardman, who’d revealed the body of Charles Yorke to Sam.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Sir Arthur; when they got to him, was overwhelmed to see them, he was flooded with relief. While Mrs Houghton tried to calm things down and give them food and drink and organise hot water “for a wash at least,” he fussed around them, mood swooping from delight that they were safe to relived horror at what they’d seen and what it meant. A message had alerted the household to the murder, brought by a labourer who had been paid (and threatened) by two armed horsemen not long after dawn. On their journey back with Tony he had revealed the message to them, but now Sir A needed explanation and reassurance.

  “It mentioned you by name,” Tony had said. “The tall one, called Sam.’ The labourer said you’d interfered in other folks’ affairs and must desist, or else you would be killed. Oh Mr Sam, did you know this poor unfortunate? What means it all, for Jesus’ sake?”

  Sir A had not been told that they had found Yorke’s body through a bribe, nor many of the details. Sam said now that the murdered man had been an informant, and guessed the other smugglers must have found it out. Both he and Will also guessed, but they did not say, that the men who’d killed Hardman must have had a damn good idea that they’d be coming down the London road this morning, or else their choice of place and timing was an amazing stroke of luck. The thought chilled both of them; they did not feel it wise to share it.

  “But you were going back down there again!” Sir Arthur said in anguish. “If Kaye had not sailed off against Beaumont’s orders, the villains would have strung you up, not him! You must not go now, you must call it off! Indeed, you shall not go!”

  It was cold outside these days, with a definite feel of autumn. As always, the parlour had a fine bright fire, but Sir A seemed to have died somehow himself, or shrunk in and aged since Bentley had first seen him, not so very long ago. He was sitting close, hands folded on the knob of a walking cane, the fingers thin and bony. They worked against each other, constantly.

  “Sir,” said Sam, choosing words with care. “I do not say you overestimate the danger, that is a sort of thing a fool would say. Both Will and myself are conscious there are ruthless men in this, but we are confident we have the measure of them, to some degree. We are also confident, I think, that we are close to getting at the core of it. After what you said last time we thought long and deep about what we’d done, and who we’d seen and spoken to. Sir, Charles Yorke and Warren died, and we will never rest until we’ve brought their memories justice. I beg you. We beg you. Let us go.”

  Bentley stood there feeling as if he were in another world. John Hardman’s death had numbed him to the point where his thoughts seemed barely to connect with one another. Sam’s speech had made no sense to him, although he got the gist and did, indeed, agree with the apparent sentiments. Hardman dead, Yorke and Warren dead, an enemy somewhere that was to all intents invisible and formless. Sam’s face came into focus, eager, upset, passionate. They would go and find and fight a monster, he was saying, and they would win where other men had failed. Why? Will wondered it, but there came no answer. He heard his own voice speak.

  “We’ve thought of nothing else,” he said. “All the while on Biter; as we wasted time. Sir A, we are desperate to get the chance to do the world some good for once! We are Navy men, we are sick of pressing helpless sailors, of illegality, or sordid pettiness! Oh God, sir, we must go!”

  He was panting through his nostrils, chest heaving up and down. Sir Arthur rose and came to them, took each by a hand. As he smiled, his eyes were glistening with tears.

  “Lord Wodderley has allowed it, and has cleared it with the Customs House,” he said. “For the King’s Navy to volunteer its men to help, and for the Revenue to grant permission of acceptance, is no light achievement from anybody’s side. If we unpicked it now… Mark you,” he added, “nobody knew then about this latest outrage. Sam. William. I do not want you killed, my boys, I cannot stand you killed.”

  “Uncle,” said Sam. He did not use the word in the normal way to Fisher, Will had never heard it said. They held each other’s eyes, the old man and the young. “Uncle,” he repeated. “We will not be.”

  There was further talk, but both of them, now the die was cast, wanted to get out of Sir Arthur’s presence, and his house, and go to meet their fate head-on. He told them they could call on Customs men as reinforcements when they got to Hampshire — Sir Peter Maybold’s bond — and that certain Navy men had been informed “something was up.” Did this include Kaye? On that, Sir A was ambiguous: but certain he would not obstruct them anymore, or try to override their higher orders. Best way with him though, all agreed, was to keep well out of range. They left mid-afternoon, well fed and watered, well provided for with money and small arms. Will watched Sam and his benefactor embrace, with a tiny twinge of envy. Then Sir Arthur gripped him by the hand, and looked into his eyes.

  “My boy,” he said, “I thank you for all this, from the bottom of my heart. Please return safe, and we will all have better times.” He faltered, then he cleared his throat. “Return safe with Samuel,” he said. “Take care of each, the both of you.”

  *

  The death of Hardman made their plan for them, because whatever else, they knew he had been loved. They set their course for Chichester, to give them one good clear night of sleep, but talk it as they might could not improve upon their first idea — to go to Langstone in the morning and plunge into the lion’s den. Sam had an idea fixed that the Frenchmen were the key, or one Frenchwoman rather, as their agent, but Will kept what he saw as a more open mind. That the depths they had to plumb were
deep and serious they had no cause to argue over. If Céline were at the centre of the spider’s web so be it, thought Will; but it was Englishmen who’d died so far, and not by foreign hands, he guessed.

  They both slept long and hard, sharing a bed for safety’s sake, for they were pretty sure the gibbet at the crossroads had been set to chime with their arrival, and it was possible they had been followed on their way from Surrey. Possible but not likely, as the journey had been clear and in clear weather, and they had done some detours and some watching stops without surprising anyone. Further, they had not told anyone their destination — not even Sir A himself — on the principle that walls have ears, and even fine and loyal men like Tony was, in outward aspect, might be possessed of a black and secret heart. They breakfasted on lamb and kidneys, washed down with Sussex ale, and kept their conversation light and general. Back in the saddle, they japed each other for the care they’d taken to be like “top-nick spies.”

  As they passed through Emsworth, though, each felt the weight of expectation pressing down on him. The wind was keen and off the sea, which meant they could go muffled and their hats pulled low, but eyes seemed to linger on their faces, and to probe. There was a lot of traffic and the narrow way congested, and the fear of challenge grew in both their chests. By afternoon they were in Havant, which was jam-pack full, it being cattle mart, and they sat down in a crowded tap confident for the while that they were anonymous and safe. Until they saw Isa Bartram watching them, quiet in a corner of the room. When he knew they had seen and recognised, he emptied the pot in front of him and gestured towards the door. By it were three others that they knew, remembered as George, Bob and Joe, although Will could not put names to faces certainly. None had knives or pistols visible — that was frowned on heavily in a town — but there was no doubt that they were armed. And they were waiting.

  Sam smiled at Will.

  “It’s do or die,” he said. “Blood, but they have good intelligence. Here’s to your very best of health.”

  He drained his pot.

  William, meeting Isa at the door, had a certain feeling that he and Sam were very soon to die. The man was lean and bitter-looking, his eyes on them unflinching, hard.

  “We have your horses,” he said. “We were expecting you. You will come with us.”

  “Ah,” said Sam. “Expecting us” — as if it were significant. Will said: “Mr Bartram. John Hardman’s death. We are truly sorry.”

  There was no reply to that, and as they rode sedately down the road to Langstone and the causeway, no other words were spoken. Sam and Will stayed together side by side and made no move to show their weapons, although Bartram and his fellows did, not ostentatiously. At his saddle, on a thong, Bob had a scattergun, short and deadly. Had they run, he could have slaughtered them.

  As they approached the houses, Will began to be aware, quite slowly, of the devastation Hardman’s hanging must have brought to the community. The Widow Hardman, he recalled, had lost two sons already in most awful circumstances, two of her three, and now the last was dead, hanged at a crossroads like a most vicious criminal. Most ironically, he’d been trying to escape the chosen life. The Hardman house, he saw before they all dismounted, was closed and shuttered up. Perhaps the poor old dame had died as well, from grief and shock.

  It was Mary’s house they made for, not Bartram’s own. As they got near the door — them leading, with pistols at their backs — it opened to let Kate emerge, a child in arms and others at her skirt. She eyed them almost fearfully, no hint of any greeting, and hurried to her own front door, and through it. Then Mary Broad appeared to watch and let them in. Her eyes met Bentley’s levelly, cool but not antagonistic, and he had a sudden surge of hope.

  “Mistress Broad,” he said. “Mary. We found John Hardman at a crossroads. We were coming here in any way. We have to stop this dreadful spiral. We have to know the truth.”

  Then, with Bartram glowering, she stepped forward and embraced him, arms strong, her bosom and her body warm.

  “Poor John,” she said. “Poor John. He talked to you, we know that. He told you things he had no right to tell. It was not us though, if you were meant to think that, maybe. We heard last night. The warning was for us as well.”

  “Mary!”

  Bartram’s voice was harsh, but she was not intimidated. She pulled back from Will, but kept her hand on his upper arm.

  “There are disputes within our company,” she said, mildly. “Come you in, and let us talk about it.”

  Sam said, as they began to cross the threshold: “It was not Will, mistress, that John Hardman spoke to, it was I. Will did not want me to, he is in no way to blame.”

  “No matter now,” said Bartram, gruffly. “Let us discuss inside. Bob, George. We must be guarded. Be discreet.”

  Inside the house was dark, and warm and still, with little light from the windows and no lamps or candles. Mary moved to make a light, then changed her mind. For all of them, the dim was preferable. They sat, but then seemed lost for words. Finally Will spoke, the oppression weighing heavily on him.

  “The Widow Hardman,” he began. “John’s mother. Is she…?”

  “We had her brother come for her,” said Mary. “She was… she would not allow us to look after her. It is… John was her third.”

  “She would not have let us talk to you,” said Bartram, quietly. “She did not know, but guessed what he had done. She would not understand that, ever.”

  “But you do?” Sam asked quickly. Getting no reply, he added: “I remember, you would not let John tell us something that he wanted to.”

  “He told you later,” said Mary.

  “For cash!” came Bartram’s voice. “He sold us out for cash, and now he’s dead! That’s why I would not let him tell you. Was I wrong?”

  After a few long moments, Mary sighed.

  “Isa,” she said. “These men, these Navy officers. They must be told, we have agreed it. They are not Customs, they came for private reasons at the start. I told them we were not behind the other deaths, and I suppose young John confirmed it. I said the other deaths were wicked and that’s proved, also, by his own. William; and Sam. What we do to get our living, as you know, is a hanging matter, if caught we’re killed, and sometimes kill preventing it. But not like this, for any reason, never. Will knew my husband. Could you see Jesse doing it? To stop the mouths of people? To burn them? To stuff them headfirst down a cave to starve? Could you see my Jesse doing that?”

  She covered her face, and the men stirred, uncomfortably.

  “You lied to him,” said Samuel, unexpectedly. Mary’s head jerked up, she was astonished. “To Will, about the French maid,” he added quickly. “Sally, or Céline. She smuggles Frenchmen. Is that the cause of this? I think so.”

  Isa let out an explosive Hah!, while Mary shook her head from side to side, dismissively.

  “Céline is nothing,” she said, “nothing. I said she’d gone to business off down east, did not I, Will? She had, as usual, but that has naught to do with us, or this. Indeed, I did not lie.”

  “But — ”

  “You said Charles Yorke was buried,” Will interrupted. “You said hotheads from out of town. Charles Yorke was trapped, hurt, incarcerated, he was not buried. He was not even dead. Was that the truth?”

  There was a longer silence. Mary’s voice, when she broke it, was lower than before.

  “It was almost what I knew,” she said. “It was much of what I hoped. Forgive me, for it was not all the truth. They were not local men, the most of them, they were not of our people nor any of the bands we know and work with. Gentlemen; sirs. All this is why we have to speak with you, to put it on the level, or things will get much worse. Something is happening down this way, something we do not want. There are families moving in on us, from the east, and coercing us. Yorke and Warren found out names and plans, and they were killed so horribly to be a lesson to us, and a warning not to resist. John Hardman was more determined and more foolhardy than
most, and looked to you for help, maybe. He was gibbeted to discourage you, I guess, but us as well. He was a wild boy, but we loved him well.”

  Bartram stood, and went to place a log on the fire. He stirred it, as if thinking, then faced out into the room.

  “These families Mary mentions,” he said. “That is not proper families, understand, it is just a word describing how we organise. In Langstone, on part of Hayling, Warblington, along the Emsworth shore, we have a family, linking in with others round this stretch of coast. Down Kent way they have much bigger gangs, and go about things much more ruthlessly. In years past these families have joined, and in the past five years or so have joined with other teams in East Sussex, Brighton, Worthing way. Now they’re horning in on us. They run bigger cargoes, much more frequently, they use much more force and far less stealthiness. Two hundred men with guns and clubs to guard the tubmen coming off the beach, luggers big enough to fight a Navy cutter, pack horses, mules, carts provided by the local population out of fear. Death and brute behaviour is the norm for them. Those are the out-of-towners Mary spoke of, that is what she meant. They cut up Yorke and Warren because they found them out. They strung up John because he went prating truth.”

  Sam’s face was dubious, he was unconvinced; still sore, Will hazarded, at the dismissal of his Sally theory. Mary and Isa watched him narrowly, to see how he would jump. After a moment, Mary pre-empted.

  “We do not say we are good,” she told him gently, “only that we are better, or at least we do not use force unless it’s forced upon us. Behind us, of course, behind us workers in the boats and on the shore, there are other men, of much more power, of wealth and influence. Do you not see? Our market is in London mainly, the centre of the world, for distribution anyway. In France the stuff is not ours for free, it must be bought and paid for in advance, made somewhere in the south maybe, then put in casks, if liquid, transported hundreds of miles, stored, lightered out to our expensive ships — which must be built and owned and paid for — then brought to England, landed, stored, coloured with burnt sugar, maybe recasked or even bottled, then up the road to London as I said, guarded, bribed for, and protection paid to any Tom or Harry who might have a safe conduit to betray us through, when he’s had the goods and benefits. Some of them,” she ended, on a bitter note, “some of them Customs men, and some Navy officers. And above us all those rich men, shadows, who provide the money in advance that makes it happen. Those rich men without names who want to join up with the men of Kent and East Sussex and will maim and murder anyone who dares to say them nay.”