Blood Will Out

by David Donachie

  Introductions made, he first asked the coroner to lay out the case.

  ‘Which I wrote you about, sir, in some detail.’

  ‘Oblige me with a reprise, Mr Cavell. No written missive can fully cover the facts. It struggles with interpretation.’

  The short period of silence which followed, added to the exchanged glances from those before him, underlined how they judged his presence. There would be many occasions when matters, which might have fallen to the judgement of the High Sheriff of Kent, or even the King’s Bench Court, had taken place here, disreputable occurrences which had been kept within its boundaries, lest enquiries lead to places the locals wished to keep opaque.

  Cavell related what had occurred in a monotone voice, which lacked any indication of either shock or sympathy for what had surely been the innocent victim of a crime. When asked what had set the riot in motion, he could offer no clue, this backed up by the slow shaking heads of his companions, who acted as if wrongdoing of any kind was beyond their comprehension. The disturbance had taken place, Quebec House had been set alight for no known reason, by persons as unidentified as the charred corpse discovered in the ruins.

  ‘You do not yet have a name?’

  ‘Time has not permitted us to press our enquiries to uncover such a fact.’

  There was little point in saying how many days had passed. ‘Your letter implied he was not alone in occupation?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So who else was living there?’

  ‘A certain naval officer.’

  ‘Can I assume he has a name?’

  ‘Edward Brazier …’

  ‘Rank, Mr Cavell?’

  ‘Post Captain.’

  ‘Anyone else − apart from the victim, of course?’

  ‘It’s been suggested to us he had with him some fellows rumoured to be members of his old crew.’ It took raised eyebrows to get Cavell to add, ‘Four in number.’

  ‘Their names?’ This too got looks of ignorance. ‘Do you know if they were within the building?’ It was hard to contain frustration in the face of a quartet of blank expressions, but John Cottin managed it. ‘From which I take it you have yet to institute any enquires at all?’

  One of the two magistrates, Phineas Tooke, other than having been introduced when Cottin first entered the room, spoke for the first time, his words silently backed up by vigorous nods from Gould, the fourth fellow attending.

  ‘You must surely understand, Mr Cottin, we are busy men with our own affairs to see to, which must take precedence over the business of the town. Added to which we have no proficiency in the investigation of crimes − this lies with an office like your own. It would not be proper to usurp such duties, sir, so once informed of your intention to come to Deal, we felt it best to await your arrival.’

  Cottin looked at the written report he’d been sent on the morning after the riot, now open on his lap, taking his time in the sure knowledge doing so would render these men uncomfortable. To a mind like his, there was only one explanation for such inactivity: a complete indifference to the execution of even the most basic functions of their positions. One fact was very pertinent − there was no one else waiting to meet him.

  ‘The whereabouts of this naval officer? He’s surely available to be questioned?’

  ‘Ah!’ was Tooke’s expression, which meant what followed was no surprise. ‘He chose to reside at the Navy Yard, but on enquiring of him late last night, in order he may be available to you this morning, there was no sign of his presence. Nor were any of those who we think shared the house with him. It is quite possible they have departed Deal altogether.’

  It’s very possible you hope they have done so, Cottin thought, as he looked back at Cavell’s letter, thinking about the choices before him. Whatever the cause of the events described, these four worthies wanted it to go away. A Crown official with sweeping powers poking about in their known den of iniquity was anathema. He could comply, and allow Cavell to convene a court at which the whole affair would be put down to death by misadventure.

  No opprobrium, Cottin knew, would accrue to him and nor, given no one had come forward to say they could be related to the corpse, would anyone bother to enquire if he had properly executed his duties. Later he would wonder if it was just cussedness or the obvious determination of these four sods not to cooperate with him which made him go on.

  ‘Your letter tells me the proprietor of Quebec House was not on the premises at the time of the fire?’ A nod greeted the question; again, no information was about to be volunteered. ‘A Mrs Riorden?’

  ‘The name is correct, sir, but we have no knowledge of her matrimonial estate.’

  ‘Yet, as landlady, she would surely know who lived on her property?’

  ‘It could be so,’ Tooke replied, before adding, on the receiving end of a sharp look from the coroner, ‘then again, perhaps not. I believe a lawyer handles her affairs.’

  ‘Let us assume it to be the case. I suggest she be the first person to whom I speak. You will, I assume, be willing to direct me to where she resides?’

  ‘We will enquire on your behalf, certainly,’ came from Tooke’s fellow magistrate, Tobias Sowerby, who could not conceal he was struggling to hide his frustration. ‘When we find her, I take it you would like us to send the information here?’

  ‘I’d be obliged.’

  ‘Then, if you don’t mind, Mr Cottin, the needs of our undertakings and those of the town never cease to call upon our time.’

  The way they all stood as one gave Cottin no choice but to accept the meeting was over, forced to stand himself and respond to their murmured good days. Once they were through the door he sat down again, deep in contemplation, seeking an avenue by which he could proceed without their help. After a few minutes, an interval decent enough to ensure they had departed the premises, he went down to the hatch where he’d met the proprietor, ringing the bell to summon him.

  ‘Mr Garlick, do you know where I could find a lady by the name of Riorden?’

  ‘At the Old Playhouse, sir, as all know. She’s a person of some significance in the town.’

  ‘Which is where?’

  ‘In the Lower Valley Road.’

  ‘From the name, this being called the Beach Street, can I take it Middle Street is on the way?’

  ‘You can. Might I enquire as to why you wish to know, sir?’

  ‘What I wish, Mr Garlick, is for directions and no more.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Having confirmed the details regarding the latest expected cargo of contraband, set for any suitable day in the coming week, Henry Tulkington left the slaughterhouse in a far from settled state. Even if he’d agreed to what Hawker proposed, it gave him scant comfort, seeming to him to fall into the same box as the night before, namely a loss of control. He’d been pushed to approve a plan not of his devising and one about which he still had serious reservations, which led to conclusions already considered.

  Hawker appeared to think any misgivings he harboured about the way matters were being run remained hidden. But his employer was adept at smelling the slightest degree of dissent and he was sniffing it now, troubling since it underlined a feeling he’d been increasingly aware of these last weeks, namely the man seemed to have forgotten his place. The way the enterprise was constructed, and for reasons of security, meant only one person could be in possession of all the strands and it was him. Financing, added to the distribution of contraband, were separate elements to those overseen by Hawker, the actual physical landing of the cargo.

  He seemed to be questioning his employer’s judgement, something hitherto unknown and which could be dated. The first manifestation surfaced over his dealings with Dan Spafford, a fellow he had hitherto taken great trouble to avoid. The reasons had more than just business at the core; Spafford was a ruffian, who looked, acted and sounded like one, the kind of low, ill-educated cully who still lived in the manner of Henry’s grandfather.

  Corley Tulkington had, by sheer e
ffort, sharp cunning and a degree of violence, hauled himself up from a mere beach smuggler to a position of affluence, though he’d apparently never lost his coarse, Lower Deal manner. This had seen the family shunned, even when they took possession of the dilapidated estate of Cottington Court, lavishing much expenditure on improvements, to turn it into one of the finest houses and farm properties in East Kent. Two generations later, the case was much altered, as a result of which Henry was conscious of and jealously guarded his status as a gentleman. The likes of Spafford, a smuggler of an older school, stood as an uncomfortable reminder of the stock from which he came.

  Much persuasion had been required before he’d agreed a meeting, this originally proposed at the behest of the now deceased Daisy Trotter. Spafford’s lifetime collaborator had contacted John Hawker to suggest it take place, insisting there was profit to be had for the Tulkington trade. Once Hawker extracted the nod, the only insistence being it happen out of sight of prying eyes, the pair then set a time and place, even if the aim still remained mysterious. Once revealed, far from being tempting, it had received nothing but ridicule larded with insults from Henry Tulkington.

  But it was not the nub of the problem. Meeting over, he’d declined to inform an inquisitive employee what had passed between them. This had not gone down well: John Hawker felt he had the right to be included when, in truth, it was none of his business. A man who’d come by inheritance, he’d never hidden his admiration for, or his gratitude to, Henry’s father. This was seen as very proper and, hitherto, he’d proved both loyal and efficient.

  To keep it that way Hawker would need to be reminded of his place in the scheme of things. If he didn’t like it, then he would have to move on, a thought to open up an obvious conundrum: how to replace him, for such men were not ten a penny. He would be hard to substitute, quite apart from the fact, though he was reluctant to entertain the notion, Henry Tulkington had no idea of how to go about it.

  By the time his coach was passing the entrance to the Old Playhouse, his thinking had moved on to the problems of his sister and how to contain her. Harry Spafford was no more, which was a pity given the threat he posed was one to keep her in check. His coach stopped, having become entangled in a mess of conveyances, from vans to dog carts, added to which was much bustling humanity, none willing to surrender the way, a feature of the Lower Valley Road.

  An idle glance out of the side window drew his attention to a group of men, sailors by their garb, being let in through the front door, one a blonde giant, another black, the other pair nondescript. He failed to recognise them, which was hardly surprising: the habit of keeping his affairs in boxes gave him no chance to put a name to the former members of Edward Brazier’s barge crew. Vincent Flaherty had preceded them and thus remained unseen, for his face would have been familiar; indeed, it was only due to his calling that the party had been admitted at all. An establishment which stayed open late, to entertain both the locals and the numerous visiting seafarers, did not welcome early morning custom.

  ‘Sure, I hope there’s some purpose to this.’

  Called from her upstairs apartment, Saoirse Riorden still managed to elicit a degree of admiration, for she had declined to appear before them without at least the most basic toilette. With a mass of red hair and a fine if pale complexion, she was a striking woman. Added to this, as the owner of the Old Playhouse, run by her single-handed, she was not of the kind to be trifled with.

  ‘Tell her, Dutchy,’ Flaherty murmured.

  A big man and confident with it, the cap Dutchy wore was nevertheless snatched off his head with speed, a gesture duplicated by his companions.

  ‘It be about the captain, ma’am. I take leave to ask if he’s here or has come by.’

  ‘He has not,’ came with flashing green eyes, a look which sought to convey the nature of the enquiry was untoward, given what it could imply. ‘Nor has he reason to.’

  About to explain, Dutchy was interrupted by loud and imperious banging at the door. Saoirse impatiently gestured for the maid who’d come downstairs with her to respond, which left everyone standing in silence. There was no admitting whosoever was doing the banging. The door closed once more, the maid came to whisper in her mistress’s ear and hand over a card, the effect mystifying.

  ‘All of you, out of sight till I see to this.’

  ‘Who is it, Saoirse?’ Flaherty asked.

  ‘A fellow no one in their right mind wants to have callin’, but one I must admit. Go into the Card Room and shut the door. And for the love of Christ, stay quiet.’

  Joe Lascelles protested. ‘What we’re about is serious.’

  ‘I daresay, but it will have to wait. Now get moving. Dottie, admit the caller when all is right and show him to my sitting room. Then make a pot of coffee.’

  If you excluded Dottie, John Cottin entered an empty hallway, being gifted a curtsy from her before he was led up the stairs. Vincent Flaherty, peering through a crack in the door, saw him but this provided nothing in the way of enlightenment, though the sight of a good-looking cove calling on Saoirse at such an hour, given his feelings for her, was not something to induce comfort.

  If he was in the grip of disquiet, Saoirse was a damn sight more uncomfortable, the only relief being this official had come on his own, so it was no raid. Like most folk in the town who traded for profit in anything to do with relaxation, her cellar was the repository of much in the way of untaxed goods, wines and spirits bought through the agency of John Hawker. She had firm opinions on who was behind him but it mattered little; he was the man with whom she did business.

  This made her ragingly curious as to why she was being called on by such an official, yet there was just as much wonder to what a man of his standing was doing in Deal, given the local elected officials would have done nothing to encourage a visitation. The law, from high sheriffs through to lord lieutenants, the military and officers of the Excise were best kept at arm’s length. Then, if he was here on official business, which the production of his card indicated, why was she being called upon when there were any number of places even more complicit in the avoidance of taxes?

  It was essential to appear calm, so she disported herself on a settle, forcing down the feeling of tense anticipation by the application of several deep breaths. Cottin, shown through the door, appeared slightly thrown by what he saw sat before him: whatever he’d expected it was not a beautiful woman lounging in a silken dressing gown and one who addressed him in a steady voice.

  ‘Mr Cottin, is it?’

  His hat came off with the same alacrity as Dutchy’s headgear. ‘I’m unsure how to address you …’

  ‘Miss Riorden will serve, sir.’

  The hat was used to request permission to sit, granted by a nod. ‘Forgive me for calling at what appears to be an inconvenient hour.’

  ‘The hour apart, I am deeply curious as to your reasons, sir?’

  ‘Quebec House?’

  It took a high measure of control to merely respond with, ‘What of it?’ given the purpose was far from what she’d expected. In the name of all holy, what was a high sheriff doing poking his nose into that mess?

  ‘You are the proprietor, I gather, and were renting it to a certain naval officer.’

  ‘You seem well informed, sir,’ was mere hedging, buying time to think.

  ‘The information was vouchsafed to me by the coroner. A Captain Edward Brazier, I was told.’

  There was no alternative to admission, though doing so did nothing to quell the measure of concern engendered, so her next question was asked to gain time.

  ‘Have you come far?’

  Seen for what it was, it got a composed, if firm response. ‘As far as my duty demands, Miss Riorden.’

  ‘Duty, is it? Sure, we’re not accustomed to such eminent folk as your good self coming to the coast on official business, or even just to take the air.’

  ‘The occasion requires it. A man died in circumstances which warrant enquiry, and those who are responsibl
e locally for such matters have no idea who he is. I was hoping you could enlighten me.’

  Saoirse was sure, without knowing precisely why, acceding to such a query would be unwise: it never did to act openly with those representing the law. Her mind was also occupied with the appearance of Dutchy Holland and his mates in the company of Vincent Flaherty. They too had been asking about Edward Brazier, in a way implying something untoward. Whatever else she was going to be told, by their expressions it did not bode well. The natural caution about husbanding information, which came as much from her Irish background as anything in Deal, made her disinclined to volunteer the truth, which would be to admit the victim was a one-time groom at Cottington Court, recently dismissed from his post.

  Anything to do with the name of Tulkington was to be avoided and, besides, she could only guess at the reason Upton had ended up in Quebec House, which rendered it territory into which it was unsafe to wander. But this damn sheriff had come here, sent by whom? What had already been said? It was necessary to take a chance he’d been given little.

  ‘The only person I had dealings with was Captain Brazier. I was aware he was not in sole occupation but, beyond that, I saw no need to enquire. As long as my rent was met it was his affair.’

  ‘So you have no names for the other occupants?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘And the present whereabouts of Captain Brazier?’

  ‘You will appreciate he’s no longer my tenant.’

  ‘For obvious reasons.’ The head dropped as if in disappointment, but it was really a stratagem to create disclosure, aided by the next question and the complete change of subject. ‘What do you think caused your house to be the target of a mob?’