Blood Will Out

by David Donachie

  Nor did he hunt, which was a social barrier in the region of West Kent in which he lived. This also barred him from taking up a place in the local Volunteer Yeomanry, a desirable organisation to be part of when it came to social advancement; all the best families, fathers and sons, participated both in the training for action and the heavy drinking which subsequently took place. Cottin was of the opinion more effort went into the latter than the former, but it saw him once more tarred as a fellow wedded to the quill not the reins, in a society which appeared not to value such an asset.

  The law had seemed the perfect place for a studious lad who showed no desire for an outdoor life, while he was content his younger brothers should take over the small family tenanted farm in which he’d been raised. Yet the profession had its own barriers to progress: too many elderly fellows with questionable legal ability blocking advancement. This he hoped to have sidestepped by applying for his present position, but it did mean he’d been obliged to leave the practice in which he had served his first pupillage, then become a partner, with the concomitant loss of prospects.

  Destined for Sandwich – he’d told Garlick it was Dover – he would take dinner in the best hostelry, then ask for his letter to be taken to the local post franchisee by the proprietor, a common request to a host. To take his mind off an aching posterior he allowed himself, as he had the previous night, to speculate on where the correspondence might lead. Proximity to power had real allure; would this provide a route out of a rural backwater into a situation where he would have the kind of standing he sought, not just in his county, but in his country?

  An elderly black traveller was rare enough to distract him from his fanciful aspirations − one poorly clad, yet riding a fine-looking bay mare, even more so. When he looked with a degree of deep curiosity at this apparition, the response was a full smile showing snow-white teeth and a tip of the hat, followed by a deep-voiced greeting.

  ‘Good day to you, sir.’

  Cottin was obliged to reply. ‘Of course, and the same to you.’

  Had the fellow been singing before, the sheriff didn’t know, being too preoccupied. But he was now: a low rhythmic refrain, which spoke of a deep religious faith.

  Hawker entered the gate of the slaughterhouse when most of Deal was just risen and Peddler walked straight on, passing by the closed and shuttered Old Playhouse on his way to the Navy Yard. The gate of the base was guarded by a pair of marines, though the source of any further progress lay not with them, but the doorman on early duty, no doubt long-serving ex-navy, looked after by a well-connected officer. This would have got him the prized post, which came with pay, bed and board. He was long past his prime and gone was anything like a pigtail or wide-bottomed ducks. These had been swapped long ago for a blue jacket with brass anchor buttons, breeches, stockings and a tricorne hat.

  ‘Ahoy there, matey,’ was Peddler’s opening gambit, preparatory to passing on through, as he had done before.

  A hand went up to stop him. ‘An’ what would you be after, now you no longer berth here?’

  ‘Who says I don’t?’

  ‘Well I do for one, an’ I don’t reckon to be alone.’

  Tempted to argue, Peddler put it aside; the crabbed look in the old bugger’s eye did not presage persuasion. All he could manage was a weak plea, not that what he mentioned amounted to much after Quebec House was burnt down.

  ‘My dunnage is still here.’

  The voice dropped as the doorman looked around to make sure there was no one in authority lurking, even the marines would struggle to hear. Peddler knew, by instinct, he was going to be given something that should not have been passed on by one old salt to another, which came through the brotherhood of the lower deck.

  ‘If’n I was you, mate, I’d forget it. Bit of a to-do yesterday. That blackamoor mate of yours took off. Heard some sheriff cove was asking after him an’ it never does to talk to such folk. Made the admiral’s clerk look like a true arse, not that he ain’t one, mind. But he was spittin’ and spread the word about the lot of you, wanting to be told if any of you showed up. So ’less you want examined, what for I have no notion, I should show your heels sharpish.’

  ‘No twice tellin’ required, mate,’ was Peddler’s reply, delivered when he was already moving away. ‘And beholden to you.’

  ‘Keep yer head low, brother,’ was sent after him.

  Where would Joe go? There were only two possibilities and, since the Old Playhouse was closest, it was to there he went first to find a closed and locked door. The last time he’d been admitted, they’d been with Vincent Flaherty and, if the Riorden woman seemed to be on their side, there was no doubt the Irishman was, though it might just be he wanted his horse back. It was to there they’d gone yesterday morning after the fight at Cottington Court; if Dutchy reckoned it the place to get aid, then it was good enough for him. Flaherty could pass on to the lady what he thought best, which for all Peddler knew might be nothing at all.

  ‘Christ, we’re in a right stew here,’ he moaned as he set off, which was a wrong thought to have on a rumbling stomach.

  Vincent Flaherty was in a paddock lunging a young horse when Zachary Colton appeared, as much a strange apparition to him as he had been to everyone he’d passed on his way. The long, soft implement was dropped into the sand and Flaherty came to lean on the fence to stare, sure by the smile on the man’s face there was no need for any kind of cautious reaction. Yet he admitted to an unpleasant feeling in his gut: Edward Brazier was not the man mounted and he should have been. What had this fellow come to tell him?

  ‘I bid you good day, sir, and ask if you go by the name of Flaherty?’

  ‘The very same, for sure. And who might you be?’

  ‘Zachary Colton, sir, and I come to you with a message from Captain Brazier. Would you permit I dismount?’

  ‘By Jesus, do so,’ was the joyous reply.

  The smile switched to a deep frown, one which looked about to precede a rebuke, but Zachary said nothing. Chastening folk for blaspheming was not in his nature: checking white men was constrained by his background for all his years of freedom. But the man he was addressing had seen the change.

  ‘Have I troubled you in some way?’

  ‘Only by your way of using the name of the son of God.’

  ‘Then I beg your pardon for the offence. Please dismount and tell me of Edward.’ Flaherty pulled a face, then exclaimed. ‘I have no idea of how far you’ve come. Can I offer you anything? A drink, food?’

  ‘I find my faith sustains me, sir,’ was delivered as Zachary slid to the ground. ‘But I would say your mare needs feed and water.’

  Flaherty went to Bonnie, to put his cheek against hers and rub her neck. ‘Then let us lead her to her stall. But first, am I allowed to enquire if the message is one of joy?’

  ‘In blessings it is mixed, sir. Your friend is alive but bears a wound.’

  ‘That I heard.’

  The concerned look brought forth instant reassurance. ‘The musket ball that wounded him has been removed and I have good reason to hope for an untroubled recovery.’

  They talked as Flaherty filled and strung up a hay net for Bonnie to munch at, which continued as, out of sight of the mare, he made up a feed of oats. By the time she’d consumed the contents of the bucket, the Irishman had taken Zachary indoors and, having laid out some food, soon knew everything he’d been asked to impart.

  ‘He told you how it came about?’

  The replay came with a slow headshake, which amply demonstrated his opinion. ‘He did.’

  ‘I see we think the same. So, what is it he wants?’

  ‘Tell his companions he is alive and allow me to lead them to him. He also asks I take back your mare.’

  ‘Is he fit to ride her?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Is who fit to ride her?’ Peddler asked from the open door.

  ‘I give you joy, Peddler, your old commander is safe.’

  The smile and relief were gen
uine while the hearty shaking of hands was in order, but as this was taking place, Peddler could not avoid his eyes swinging to the food on the table.

  ‘If you would oblige me, Mr Flaherty, I’m sharp set.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Elisabeth was unsure what to make of the note from Henry, first of all his declaration things could not go on as they were. Did it hint at a weakening of his position? The assurance Harry Spafford was not within the house seemed even more curious. It was immediately open to question as to whether it was a trap, a prime example of the degree of distrust which had grown between them, one which would surely never be resolved. Should she join him for breakfast as he suggested, or send back a note to decline?

  Elisabeth had always held herself to be more spirited than her brother. As a young man he had shied away from anything physical, the kind of manly pursuits common in her father’s day, which saw crowds of visitors coming to Cottington Court. Riding to hounds and hare coursing, shooting game when the proper seasons came round, attendance at cockfights and bare-knuckle boxing contests held in the grounds, not that Elisabeth had been exposed to the latter.

  To decline would smack of anxiety, more likely to encourage than discourage Henry, reasoning which got her out of her bedroom. The moment of entry into the dining room was one of pretend calm. Heart fluttering, she forced herself to act as if nothing was untoward, as if she was engaged in a daily activity in a normal household. Henry nodded but said nothing, while her Aunt Sarah, clearly surprised and not forewarned, kept her eyes firmly fixed on her plate. Having chosen what she required from the chafing dishes on the sideboard, Elisabeth sat down to pick up her knife and fork, though they poised over the plate, away from the food, frozen there by Henry speaking.

  ‘It pleases me you’ve accepted my invitation.’

  The silkiness of the tone was too much; despite prior strictures nothing should be allowed to irritate her, Elisabeth could not avoid her pithy response. ‘It does not occur to you I might be here because it is my right to be?’

  Expecting him to rise to anger, she was thrown by the even tone of the response. ‘It shows what we’ve come to when you feel the need to say so.’

  ‘This ham is particularly fine,’ Sarah Lovell exclaimed with a sort of nervous trill, so obviously a ploy to ward off unpleasantness even Henry managed the ghost of a smile. ‘Smoked to perfection, though I rate the pigeon a trifle tough.’

  ‘Aunt Sarah, my sister and I have matters of a personal nature to discuss and, while I feel you to be as much a part of the family as either of us, I wonder if you could see your way to leaving so we can talk alone?’

  The eating implements clattered on to her crockery as she pursed her lips, though no words followed. The first part of what had been said did not marry up with the rest; she was plainly being told, when it came to family, she was at best on the periphery. Henry had never lacked the ability to be insensitive, while to her niece, Sarah Lovell deserved whatever he cared to hand out. Yet did she want to be alone with him, even if she was intrigued?

  ‘I have no objection to your remaining, Aunt,’ Elisabeth said, her subjective reason being to say, if Henry wanted something, it was axiomatic she did not. ‘I’m sure you’re just as curious as I to find out what my brother sees as so personal you should not be free to participate.’

  Lovell’s face was like a mask: bloodless and rigidly set. Here was another example of her lowly standing in the household. Everyone knew it to be so, but it was something she declined to take on board unless it was thrown in her face, which of late had been too many times, by both nephew and niece. Knowing there was little alternative, she sought to cover her belittling with an excuse.

  ‘As it happens, I have many things to attend to. You will be aware, Henry, this household does not run itself.’

  Elisabeth had a vision then, of the servants below stairs, paying a price for what had just occurred. Sarah Lovell did indeed run the household, but was not loved for her haughty and impatient manner, which she required to maintain her dignity. Lovell described herself, to anyone who enquired, as a guest who’d sacrificed much, having come to Cottington to help her late sister look after the children. In truth, the arrival of her and her husband had been due to the complete collapse of his dubious business speculations, leading to the loss of both their Canterbury home and her prized social position.

  Henry was all smooth appreciation for this apparent self-sacrifice. ‘I’m sure you know how grateful I am, Aunt Sarah, and please let me know of anything you require to ease the burden you have so kindly taken on. Perhaps we can have tea together later.’

  The tone of the reply failed to match the words as her napkin was folded slowly and deliberately before being, with excessive care, set down by the side of her cup.

  ‘I look forward to it.’

  ‘Was that necessary, Henry?’ was asked once she’d left the room.

  ‘I think it so.’

  ‘For which there must be a reason.’

  Henry pushed his chair back from the table, laboriously wiping his mouth with his napkin before speaking. ‘I asked you to come here because this is a room the servants will not enter until it is time to clear things away. It is thus one of the only two rooms where I can guarantee we will not be overheard. I reckoned an invitation to come to the other, my study, would not have been accepted.’

  Even if it was the truth, Elisabeth declined to agree. ‘I go where I please.’

  A slight gesture of frustration crept into his voice as he responded. ‘Do you indeed?’

  ‘Please get to the point, brother.’

  ‘Very well. First let me say to you, on certain conditions being agreed, Harry Spafford will never again reside at Cottington Court. While I know you will be suspicious of any promise I make, this is one I see as being in my interest to keep.’

  ‘Which implies there are others it would not trouble you to break.’

  Such an obvious truth was neatly sidestepped. ‘Have you ever stopped to ask yourself why I objected to your marrying this Brazier?’

  ‘This Edward, you mean.’ A shrug. ‘I’ve sought a reason many times and can only conclude this. Anything which makes me happy has the opposite effect on you.’

  ‘Which I can refute absolutely.’

  ‘Really? I seem to recall you were the same when it came to my marrying Stephen Langridge, only to abruptly change your mind when you heard he’d inherited his uncle’s plantations. Even seeing you as a misanthrope, the speed of the change perplexed me.’

  ‘Misanthrope?’ got a less tranquil look; it was not a description to please him at all.

  ‘For all your faults, Henry, I did not have you down as a money-grubber.’

  ‘Suggesting I saw Stephen as a burden on the family purse?’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘I admit to thinking him originally an unsuitable match and take leave to suggest our father, had he been alive, would have agreed. Stephen had no money to speak of, so could not have supported you, even given your very substantial dowry, without my help. You were brought up to expect an open purse.’

  Much as he tried to disguise it, there was a trace of bitterness in the last remark. She had been the cossetted daughter, tutored at home by a pliable governess until her aunt arrived and took on the role, always able to twist an indulgent parent round her little finger, doubly so when her mother passed away. Henry was son to a stern father who expected much, sent away to be educated and, judging by what she knew from his visits home, hating every day of it. Their lives could not have been more in contrast and she was sure the resentments Henry felt for what she saw as her good fortune stemmed from this.

  ‘In loco parentis, I was your guardian, so I had a duty to protect you.’

  ‘So I’m right.’

  ‘Partially so, but let me make plain to you it was not the value of the plantations Stephen inherited which changed my mind so quickly, but their location. In Jamaica you and he would be a long way off and in no position to
probe into matters here and even, heaven forbid, give cause for worry.’

  ‘What matters?’

  ‘The same as those I cannot have looked into by someone like Brazier. You’ve been made aware by him of what they are, though I doubt the extent. Why seek to run off with him, if that’s not the case?’

  Henry’s openness, even the manner in which it was being expressed, flew right in the face of his normal cautious and secretive behaviour, another trait he’d shown since childhood. It threw Elisabeth off balance, so what came next was expressed to give her time to think rather than to acknowledge what she knew.

  ‘Do I understand you to be admitting to what you denied when I challenged you previously?’

  ‘Obviously, but you need to understand my motives, so I concluded it is perhaps best if I tell you everything. Are you prepared to hear it, for I fear it may shock you?’

  ‘I’m not a child.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  The food in the chafing dishes grew cold as he did as indicated, despite the tiny candles sat beneath. Eventually even they, one by one, spluttered and died. Henry went all the way back to grandfather Corley and the ruffian he’d been, a drinker and brawler by reputation, smuggler of repute, until he bought Cottington Court and set out to find respectability.

  ‘I heard stories of his ways too, Henry, though our father, who never hid his pride, made them sound like amusing escapades.’