‘Should’ve brought hammocks.’
John Cottin finished what was a good if solitary dinner at the Three Kings, amused by the way Garlick, who’d chosen to serve him personally, kept fashioning what he reckoned to be subtle enquiries as to what his guest had uncovered; they were about as delicate as a ton of bricks and amusing because of it. His guest’s purpose was known to him and Garlick was probing to see what he’d uncovered.
Nursing a fine French brandy and picking at the last of his cheese, while idly watching the bobbing lights of the huge ships’ lanterns which filled the anchorage, he was cogitating on what to do next. In truth he was also wondering if he had given himself such a wild goose chase it would be best to return to Westerham and leave the locals to stew in their own delinquency, thoughts distracted as Garlick came back into the private dining room.
‘Can I offer you another drop of brandy, your honour?’
‘No, Mr Garlick, though I must say it’s a fine brew.’
‘Kind of you to remark on it, sir, for I have a care on what I buy in.’
But not from where or whom you buy it was Cottin’s silent conjecture: high quality and a far from excessive price hinted at contraband goods. Off on a boast, Garlick was content to leave matters there, going on to claim a superior standard to anyone else in Deal and all points of the compass as well.
‘There’s not a worthy soul who dines at the Three Kings who don’t compliment me on my cellar, sir, and it goes double for the food I provide. Why, even the First Minister to King George himself takes his provender here for that very reason.’ Cottin’s obvious curiosity had Garlick continue, obviously delighted to be imparting superior knowledge instead of seeking to extract any. ‘He does so when resident at Walmer Castle, which has poor kitchens and lacks anyone to produce what I serve.’
Enquiry from Cottin led to the boast Pitt was now a frequent visitor to Walmer Castle, given the occupant of the Cinque Ports sinecure whom he’d appointed, of which the fortress was the official residence, showed no desire himself to use it. The politician, he heard, had a love of sea air and gardens, which his occupation allowed him to indulge.
‘This rumour of Captain Brazier being in league with Mr Pitt. What do you reckon to it?’
It was a sudden thought to ask, one which ran against the grain of his earlier resolution, in truth one brought on by a day of frustration. Amusement had to be contained on noting his host’s abrupt change of expression, guarded rather than expansive. A touch of flattery was required to loosen his tongue.
‘Come, Mr Garlick. I guess you to be a fellow fly enough to ensure nothing of note gets past you. Indeed, did you not intimate as much on my arrival?’
A whole gamut of emotions crossed the imbibed face in quick succession, discretion fighting with his desire to appear a repository of information not vouchsafed to all and sundry, the latter winning out when Cottin added,
‘Be assured, anything you say to me will go no further.’
‘Captain Brazier did dine in the company of Mr Pitt on more than one occasion, your honour, in this very room too, though what they talked of I don’t know, nor would I make it my business to enquire.’
‘Would you say their relations were cordial?’
‘Seemed enough so, but as I say …’
‘So who, apart from you, would know about these meetings?’
‘Half Deal in a flash, your honour. There’s no shortage of nosy folk around here and my doorway is in plain view to any seeking to know who’s a coming and going. And Mr Pitt goes nowhere without a couple of armed soldiers, which is like a banner to say he’s present.’
But not with whom he dined. It took no great leap to envisage Garlick boasting about his esteemed guest and with whom he shared a table, but gossip was no crime. Nor did he think any attempt to extract further revelations from his host would yield anything other than obfuscation. This accepted, what he had been told did lead to a possible way to proceed, though the half-formed thought required time to mature.
‘On reflection, Mr Garlick, perhaps I can treat myself to another brandy.’
‘Be back in a tick, your honour.’
Before the second glass was placed before him, John Cottin had come to a conclusion. He was damned if he was going to be side-lined by the scoundrels who ran this town. He’d write to William Pitt, ask for his help and, failing that, some indication of how to proceed in a way which would bring to justice one or more murderers, added to censure for those too lazy or implicit in the crime to pursue them. To do so had potent advantages, which had nothing to do with the case. Such a letter would bring to the attention of, next to the King himself, the most powerful man in the kingdom, both his name and his application, which could do no harm in the future and might even lead to greater things.
To write was the easy part, while the normal way once sanded and sealed would be to pass his correspondence to Garlick for despatch, which would never serve. He would have to find another location, one which had nothing to do with this hostelry or indeed Deal, given any missive given to the local postal franchise would be marked with the name and address of its recipient. Garlick could not be relied upon to keep his mouth shut but he was not alone. What was the alternative? Downing Street as the destination might set alarm bells ringing wherever it went from, enough for the letter to be passed to the quartet he’d met on arrival. He’d not put it past these villains to open and read what he said, so it needed to go from somewhere outside Deal. On his way to his room, he passed the proprietor’s hatch, where he issued an instruction.
‘I will require a horse tomorrow, Mr Garlick. I’m sure you know of someone who can provide me with something not too hard to control.’
‘I shall send to Mr Flaherty first thing, sir, an’ be assured, he keeps a capital stable. Also, with me to intercede for you, the price will not be excessive, cheating the unwary being the way with horse folk.’
‘I wish you good night.’
He had the means to write the letter in his room, one being composed in his head as he ascended the stairs.
CHAPTER EIGHT
After what had been a trying day, Henry Tulkington returned home to a house in which matters still required to be resolved, without having taken the steps to investigate how it might be brought about. Meeting the doctor he’d hoped to question at the Deal Lodge, the fellow who’d supplied him with the potion which had so sedated Elisabeth, which had allowed him to see her married off to Harry Spafford, had been put aside while he dealt with more pressing matters. Much of this he’d mulled over on the way home with no resolution. Feeling far from well, he was sure he needed a good night’s sleep just to reach any sort of equilibrium. This rendered unwelcome the information from Grady to say Joshua Moyle was waiting to see him and had been for some time.
‘The Reverend Doctor is in your study, sir.’
‘How long did you say?’
‘He arrived just after luncheon, sir.’
‘How much drink has he put away?’ was delivered in a waspish tone.
Moyle was a fellow who normally amused Henry, he being the least divine person to ever wear the cloth. But the thought of dealing with him now, no doubt in his usual drunken state through having access to the well-stocked cellar, was best avoided. He was just about to order he be carried back to the vicarage when Grady replied.
‘The reverend declined to take anything of that nature, sir. But he has asked for and been served with tea twice.’
The servant’s expression was, as ever, devoid of expression, unlike his employer’s, whose eyebrows shot up in surprise: the man was a true soak whose antics, after being at the bottle, rarely failed to make Henry snicker, as much for the depressing effect it had on the man’s long-suffering wife as the embarrassment itself. Perhaps to take his mind off things the cleric was just the company he needed, so he said, in what he thought was a jocose tone, that brandy had better be served now.
‘For myself as well,’ was added as an afterthought.
> Entering his study suppressed any feeling of humour. The man’s ruddy, vinous face, once he stood to greet his host, left Henry in no doubt Moyle was in some way troubled. He was, as ever, an unprepossessing sight, his black waistcoat stretched over a substantial belly of strained buttons. Along with the lapels of his coat, it was covered with traces of snuff and food that had missed its target; above this and a worried countenance, the pepper-and-salt hair as unruly as ever. The only oddity was his sobriety. ‘I’ve had a letter from the bishop, Henry.’
‘Which surely must rank as a first.’ He not being the type to correspond with high clerics, the attempt at wit did not go down well, very much the reverse, which prompted an obvious question. ‘On the subject of what?’
‘Surely you can guess?’
‘Joshua, you’re the second person today to require I deduce something from thin air. It failed to amuse on the first occasion.’
‘It asks if there were any irregularities I wish to admit to, in the marriage of Spafford and Elisabeth.’
‘I’m surprised he even knows it took place.’
‘I told you, I had a visit from his secretary.’
Henry replied absent-mindedly as he went to stand before the fire. ‘So you did, and now you’ve had a letter asking about irregularities, to which you can surely reply there were none.’
‘When we both know it not to be the case?’ came out as protest. ‘No banns were called, added to which the ceremony took place in this very room, not as is required by law in a consecrated place.’
‘To none of which you are required to admit.’
‘Someone is putting about the truth, Henry.’
The door opened and Grady entered bearing a silver tray, the crystal of both glasses and the decanter catching the light of the candles and the flames of the fire, which covered the fact of Henry deducing the culprit, for there could only be one. Silently Grady laid the tray down and proceeded to pour the drinks, his presence rendering any further discussion impossible, minds not as restful as their tongues.
Moyle was in a true bind: he owed his living at Cottington to the Tulkington family, which meant his home and his stipend. The church lay in the grounds of the estate, so no authority could impose a priest. They could propose, but the final decision lay with the family, or to be more precise a man he dare not upset. But the diocese could remove him from clerical orders and oblige Henry to find another prelate. He would not have been reassured if he had known what Henry was thinking: Spafford was dead, so what did it matter? However, Moyle required to be reassured.
‘Someone who would lack anyone to corroborate his gossip. No one in this house will say a word.’
‘Except Elisabeth. The letter asks to be allowed the names of the assenting parties so the diocese can communicate with them.’
‘In writing?’
‘I assume so.’
Henry picked up one of the filled glasses and handed it to Moyle, knowing a reassuring fib was required to settle his concerns. ‘I shall make sure all correspondence coming into this house is brought to me, regardless of the superscription. The servants and my aunt will say what they’re told. Elisabeth? Best leave it to me, while you and I can say whatever is needed to see them off.’
Moyle took the glass of brandy, the only thing to ease Henry’s state of mind. His worried guest had resurrected a concern which had lain dormant for most of the day, one the non-divine Moyle nailed right away.
‘And what about Harry Spafford?’
‘I shouldn’t go concerning yourself about him, Joshua.’
Having sent the reverend home, under his own sail for once, Henry ordered a negus as a nightcap, prior to retiring. Sat in a chair watching the fire turn to ash, he set his mind to all the problems which assailed him, determined to examine them objectively, refusing to allow his frustrations to boil over into anger. What he’d just been told about ecclesiastical interference was added to the mound, another matter requiring attention, lest it grow from irritation into trouble, one telling factor being an alarmed Moyle could not be relied upon.
The earlier brandy had relaxed him while the sweet and spicy negus added to the mood. In such a state of mind, if solutions did not emerge, potential ways of proceeding did, first and foremost being how to deal with his sister. The twitch of his lips, which grew to a smile, convinced him he’d alighted on a clever ploy, though being a careful man it required to be thoroughly examined before being acted upon. If it failed to work, he could fall back on his previous notion of mental instability. Tested more than once, mentally argued, in which his views naturally carried the day, he went to his desk to take up his quill and pen a note. A ring of the servant bell ensured, when he made for the stairs and his bed, Grady was waiting for him, holding a five-branch candlestick.
‘Oblige me by seeing my sister gets this first thing in the morning.’
‘Certainly, sir.’
It was the loud crack of a burning log which woke up Edward Brazier, still in pain but nothing like that which he’d experienced before going to sleep. This tempted him to sit up, movement reminding him sharply of the wound, which had him gritting his teeth. But he refused to stop, albeit it was a slow and careful effort. Sat up, he looked around with a more focused eye than hitherto, noting the dwelling seemed to consist of only one room, sparsely furnished. All needed for existence was within.
His mind was now clear enough to think through what needed to be done, which brought into sharp focus the amount he didn’t know, like what had happened to Dutchy and the rest after he had been sent away. They might be armed but they were also seriously outnumbered, which brought on the depressing notion he’d not only led them into a trap, they could possibly have paid a greater price than he.
Brazier soon refused to consider the thought: he knew them to be resourceful and bloody-minded fighters and had seen them in action. Mostly it had been in the boarding of American contraband runners seeking to access the British West Indian possessions in which they were not allowed to trade. As members of his barge crew, they went where he went, and a captain known by the soubriquet of ‘The Turk’ was not inclined to leave the task of taking an illegally trading vessel to a subordinate. Many of the contests had been hard fought. Even outnumbered, the Jonathans would not give up without a contest, though they declined to use guns on the very good grounds a 32-gun frigate had a lot more firepower at its disposal. Even cutlasses were rarely employed, which left clubs and fists. While interdicting them, their willingness to take on the King’s Navy engendered a degree of admiration for people who never ducked making a stand.
Fretting on any number of possibilities would get him nowhere. It was necessary to assume them safe until it was established as true or false by contact. To stand up required a very straight-held back, made harder by the seeming weakness of his legs. Nor did he feel steady when upright, so taking a step came with the risk of a fall. If not quite a stagger to the fireplace it was close, while it needed a hand on the mantle to secure himself. His dark-blue coat, of good quality though bought second-hand in Deal, was hanging to one side. Lifting it told him the purse it contained was there, with it a decent sum in coin, soon confirmed as he fetched it out along with his Hunter case timepiece. Would the man who’d tended to him accept a reward for his endeavours and, if he would, what should it be? That could wait, right now anything to ease his pain was the primary concern.
He felt the heat from the flames licking around the logs, which told him this was a recently stoked-up fire. The same hand was used to keep him upright as he slowly turned to let the heat play on his back, which was welcome but too scorching to stay still for long. While he was contemplating moving to the sole chair in the room, his saviour entered, carrying a dead chicken and a basket of vegetables, frowning before smiling, which presented a fine set of teeth.
‘I recall my late master and I tended to different types of people, sir − those who would lie still and beg attention and others who would never do what they were told, even for t
heir own good. Odd the ones who died were often not the disobedient.’
‘I need to get a message to some people, one I doubt I’m in a fit state to deliver.’
‘In a day or two, perhaps.’
‘Sooner.’
‘To reassure them you’re still alive?’ Brazier nodded. ‘And you wish me to take it?’
‘All I require is you take the horse to a certain person, tell him of my condition, then bring it back again so I may use it when I’m fit enough to ride.’
‘This tells me you think you have people to fear, sir.’
Forgetting his wound, Brazier shrugged and winced, which delayed his response. ‘I have no idea if there are.’
‘But you wish to be safe by thinking the worst.’
‘I will go myself if you decline.’
‘And where is it you would wish me to go, sir?’
‘A livery stable outside Deal. I will give you directions.’
‘The day is nearly gone.’
‘At first light, then?’
The feathery and limp object in his hand was held up. ‘After some food, sir.’
‘And more sleep,’ Brazier replied, not seeking to hide the fact he was still weak by moving to plonk himself on the battered sea chest. ‘I think perhaps I should tell you my name. Edward Brazier.’
‘Would it trouble you to tell me more, sir?’
‘Perhaps when you tell me about yourself.’ This got a chuckle so deep it sounded as if it was coming from his boots. ‘You must admit to being rare in these parts.’
‘A slave, you mean?’
‘A free black man and seemingly a farmer.’
Tempted to tell him about Joe Lascelles, Brazier decided to hold back until he knew more of this man. Asked why, he could not have said but he felt it right. Anyway, Zachary was ready to oblige, plucking the bird as he spoke, first of a life of slavery on another farm, albeit a bigger one, where the work could be back-breaking.
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