Blood Will Out

by David Donachie

  Exiting the room, Grady informed Henry he had been in receipt of post, adding the box of coin kept to pay for delivery required to be replenished, which engendered mild annoyance, it being the kind of domestic chore overseen by his aunt. It was important she kept abreast of her duties, which he would remind her of when they had tea. A small pile of letters, plus a copy of the Daily Universal Register, lay on a silver salver, scooped up to be taken to his study.

  One letter dropped to the floor and, bending to pick it up, Henry saw it was addressed to Elisabeth. That in itself was not what led to a rush of angry blood. The handwriting he knew only too well, making it unnecessary to look at the return address: it was from his Uncle Dirley.

  On re-entering her bedroom, with the door locked and the key left in, which assured no one could enter without permission, Elisabeth noticed right away the lack of quills in the leather vessel on her desk, normally prominent. Within a second it was obvious what else had been taken away: the box of writing paper, the well and the sand required to dry the ink. Gone too was her seal along with the tin of wax; not even the knife required to keep the quill sharp had survived.

  Many times she’d sat down to write letters, obviously to Edward Brazier, others to Annabel Colpoys, even one to Stephen’s mother, the Widow Langridge, with whom she had what could best be described as a strained relationship, so much so they were the only missives which contained nothing about her present travails and so could be safely left lying about. The others, as much to get the thoughts that troubled her, not out of her mind, but in a sense shared, were composed in the certain knowledge they could not be sent. These went out with her on her walks to be disposed of in the lake, wrapped round a stone to ensure they sank to the bottom, it not being safe to leave them hidden in a room the servants would be sent in to clean in her absence.

  She could easily envisage her Aunt Sarah alone in here once they’d finished, searching for any sign her niece was seeking to communicate with anyone outside the grounds, the only question being, was she driven by her own desire to discover or acting on the instructions of Henry − not that it made any difference. This must have been a deliberate instruction and to her mind it was crass, petty and stupid, just another indication of how much he controlled everything. If he had, for a very brief moment, dented her resolve in the dining room, such an act completely demolished any notion she would comply with his wishes. Why was it he thought himself clever, when so often he acted like a spoilt child?

  Anger at such a move sustained her for a while, but it wasn’t long before a wave of despair began to take over. Writing plans and concocting stratagems, even knowing it was pointless, had helped sustain her and now such release was gone. Her determination not to succumb to tears held for a while, but broke eventually and left her sobbing, while wondering how her life could have, in so short a time, come to this.

  The Reverend Joshua Moyle was in the process of actually trying to write a letter, a reply to the bishop in Canterbury, in truth the incumbent in Dover, who undertook the pastoral duties of the premier diocese to cover for the archbishop. He, besides a few major religious festivals, which obliged him to take services in his seat, stayed in London for the very simple reason it was where the things which mattered took place.

  The quill was not moving with anything approaching fluency, for the way his confidence had been boosted by Henry Tulkington the night before had not survived his slumbers. He’d woken long before his normal hour – a lack of drink contributing – to face the possibility of further investigation into his activities. How had something which should have stayed within the confines of the Cottington Estate come to the attention of his ecclesiastical superiors?

  The bishop’s secretary had already paid a visit to examine the parish register, making no comment on the entry relating to the marriage of Spafford and Elisabeth, yet leaving Moyle with a feeling he was suspicious. The communication which had so alarmed him underlined the supposition had been correct. It was not a night or a situation he recalled with much pleasure. Why had he not had the courage to point out what was suggested was sinful, in reality a forced marriage of the kind Acts of Parliament had been promulgated to stop?

  He could recall working himself up to do so more than once, but the courage to speak never surfaced. Even fortified by too much brandy, it was obvious Elisabeth had been given some kind of drug. Her intended had put away more brandy than he, while Henry, sober, had masterminded the whole affair, even to the point of forcing his tearful aunt to act as witness. How many times in private had he resolved to tell Henry his duties to his ministry took precedence over his responsibilities to the man who controlled his appointment?

  Such determination never survived being in his presence and it had been the same with Acton Tulkington, the person who’d chosen him to fill the vacancy, which had come as a godsend to a cleric with a wife to support and in desperate pursuit of a place. Moyle knew he was unfitted to his office. If he’d been the priest he set out to be, the man Mrs Moyle had been happy to wed, this is not where he would have ended up. Somewhere along the way he had lost his faith, something he supposed was kept private but was in fact no mystery among those to whom he ministered. Often he was the worse for wear due to drink taken, which, he convinced himself, was to bolster his confidence.

  This in itself said much of the level to which he’d sunk. His congregation consisted almost exclusively of the workers on the estate, added to labouring folk, servants, farm workers, woodcutters and charcoal makers disinclined to crowd outside the much busier church of St Leonard’s, often in the rain or buffeted by the wind. There was no room inside for the commonality: pews were reserved for people of quality, who could be relied upon not to let the collection plate pass without donating silver, the kind of folk he’d dreamt himself administering to as a young man.

  A glance at the open parish register demonstrated the difference: not there the long list of births, weddings and funerals, which would have been inscribed in any normal parish; his was singular in the paucity of entries. However he calculated a reply, Moyle knew to say anything which could rebound on Henry was impossible, for the very simple reason he would suffer equally, if not more.

  The prospect of being moved was terrifying, for there would be no likelihood of another living. This meant no home, no stipend to pay for food to eat, which would oblige him to seek charity from one or more of his fellow clerics. The notion of such an impoverished existence was not to be borne, so the quill, which had stayed poised too long, began to scratch across the paper.

  Your Grace,

  It troubles me to find rumours are being spread of events and ceremonies taking place in Cottington Parish which do not adhere to the tenets of the Holy Church. Let me assure you in the matter of the recent nuptials between the widow Mrs Langridge and Harold Spafford Esq. all proper steps and obligations required for the ceremony were met …

  Of the dangers Moyle faced, Henry Tulkington was by far the greatest. Lying to a bishop was a risk but, in comparison, one much less threatening.

  Henry was not writing, but mentally composing a reply to what had not been addressed to him. Dirley’s previous communication had been irritating enough, added to which it had been opened to be first read by his Aunt Sarah, something which still rankled. At least she’d passed it to him, not Elisabeth, so his sister knew nothing of its existence, or the invitation issued for her and Spafford to visit him in London so he could both cosset and congratulate them.

  This follow-up was even more disingenuous; it assured her he, Henry, would be a sound custodian of the affairs of the new couple, which was seen as questionable for, if it was not, why mention it? Dirley took leave to assume they’d put aside any notion of returning to Jamaica to oversee the management of the plantations themselves, a possibly wise choice given the fate which had befallen poor Stephen. But it was the last paragraph that really raised his hackles.

  I’m aware I’ve been a distant presence in your life, even more now than when your f
ather was alive and for reasons upon which I do not have to elaborate. Yet I hope you know from our correspondence these last few years, and the advice I have proffered to be taken or declined as you see fit, I hold your interests as dear to my heart as those of your brother. Being at one remove does not mitigate what I see as my duty to my family.

  I extend again the invitation to you and your new husband to come to London, where I can entertain you and, I must also say, show off to the elevated society in which I move, the charms of my most beautiful niece, as well as the no doubt outstanding attributes of your new husband.

  On the other hand, perhaps a visit to Cottington Court would be in order, where it has to be admitted tranquillity in the article of appreciation of your new-found status is likely to be more speedily achieved than in our teeming capital city.

  It was signed off with the kind of flowery tributes, mixed with self-effacement, which had never been present in any letter Dirley had addressed to Henry. This caused him to swear out loud on first reading, with a statement as accurate as it was heartfelt.

  ‘You devious old bastard!’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Prior to departure, Zachary Colton had seen Edward Brazier fed, re-dressed his wound and informed his surprise guest the sun was shining, on what was looking to be a fine day.

  ‘There are times, sir, when my labours permit, I sit out on my bench and praise the Lord for the life I now live and the bounty his grace bestows upon me. I would suggest, while I’m absent, it might suit you to feel the warmth of the sun and the purity of the air.’

  ‘The last of which, as a sailor, I’m well accustomed to.’

  The point drew another of Zachary’s humorous and chest-heaving rumbles.

  ‘How anyone goes voluntarily to sea! I recall the crossing to England, sir, and my terror at the sight and activity of the ocean, for which nothing prepares a man raised on the land. But for my faith, I could have succumbed to despair.’

  ‘How did you come by such a deep faith?’

  ‘My first master was a God-fearing man and he helped me to become the same, though he was too fond of the entries on chastisement.’

  He went to the chest and, kneeling to open it, took out some books, given the size of his hand quite a number. The one he drew on particularly was a well-thumbed Bible, which he held out like a trophy.

  ‘Mr Venables likewise, sir. This is the Good Book from which he would read to me each evening. Then we would pray together.’

  ‘He never married?’

  ‘No, sir,’ was a reply without the addition of any reason; with Zachary so quick to move on, Brazier suspected there might be a motive he had no desire to discuss. ‘The pity is, I was never taught to read so I could carry on after he died.’

  ‘Would you like me to do so now?’

  His expression showed the notion appealed. ‘Perhaps on my return, sir. Your mare is saddled and the sun is well up now. Best I go upon my way.’

  ‘The message?’

  This got a tap on the forehead to indicate it was locked in there. From the still open chest he produced a blanket. ‘For your shoulders, sir, should you take the air, as I suggest.’

  The lid was closed, with the books placed on top and, following the smile, which seemed his habitual expression, Zachary was gone. Brazier listened to the sound of Bonnie’s hooves as she was ridden away, dull on what was soft ground, feeling at a loss as to what to do. He’d asked if there were any tasks he could undertake in Zachary’s absence, only to have it pointed out any such would involve the kind of labour more likely to reopen his wound than help the stitching to hold.

  So he went outside, to look at the neat lines of cherry trees, in leaf now but well shorn of their crop, the apples on others yet to fully ripen. Walking with one arm holding the upper part of the other, he took in the domain: a small paddock with a donkey in a field, a sty with an old sow and, in a byre, the cow whose milk he’d drunk that morning. Dominating the whole was a double line of hop poles, part of the crops which would provide income for the whole year.

  The bench, facing south and hard by the circular well, was half of a tree trunk, backed by interleaved branches set on a pair of stumps. Onto this he settled gingerly, to ensure his good shoulder took any pressure, finding Zachary had been right about the sun, which shone on and warmed him. As far as he could, he leant back and lifted his face to sit, eyes tight shut as his mind wandered.

  What else could fill it but the same thoughts which had troubled him from the moment he came back to consciousness? Yet he did not want to go to a place where there could be no resolution until things presently beyond his control were sorted. Eyes open once more, with a hand to keep the sun out of his eyes, he drew a comparison, not a flattering one, with what Zachary had and the house and farm in which he’d grown up. Not a wattle-and-timber construct, which looked as if a gale might blow it down, but a four-square brick building of the type common to prosperous farmers and clergy.

  It hadn’t occurred to him, till many years later, when he’d grown to manhood, to question his home’s size and comfort, to see it was an establishment beyond the means of a mere naval surgeon. Being in the service himself, the pay such a position produced was no mystery. Added to which, being in southern Hampshire, just south of the village of Anmore, it was an area of valuable farmland and stout houses, much settled by the families of naval officers, senior captains included, and thus of high value. The Brazier property was not shamed by any comparisons with neighbours.

  ‘Sold now,’ he whispered, wondering at what he felt now was a mistake. With him at sea and his parents gone, it was too much trouble to keep, but the thought would not go away. ‘We could have been happy there, Betsey.’

  This was done head back and eyes closed once more, as he conjured up a picture of the house in his mind, indeed much more than the building. There had been two substantial barns, orchards and fields, as well as farm workers in numbers, which assured no member of the family must toil; indoor servants in rank and duties matched the best of their neighbours.

  ‘Or perhaps you would hanker after something grander.’

  The image of Cottington Court had brought on the thought, for it was an imposing edifice, aged in style to show intricate and mellow red brick, topped with lead cupolas, while those inside gazed out through numerous and mullioned windows, regardless of the taxes they drew. The neat parterre just inside the inner gates lay at the end of a long carriage drive to the outer gateway and the road to Canterbury and Ramsgate. He’d recently sat on Bonnie there, guying the keeper and his dog by his presence, well aware it would be reported to and infuriate Henry Tulkington, who was the last person he wanted to be thinking about.

  With no notion of time, thirst eventually took hold and led him the few steps to the well, to loosen the rope holding the bucket. It slid through his hand as he let it down till he heard a splash. The stones weighting the bottom took it below the level of the water and, after a few moments, he made to haul it back up, the first movement inducing a severe enough pain to stop him cold. To get the bucket up and tie it off, so he could cup out a drink, took a long time and was not without hurt. This done, he needed to sit down again to let it subside back to a dull ache.

  Much as he sought to distract himself by thinking of other matters, he could not prevent troubled thoughts intruding. Everything − home, the navy, some of the many places he’d been, even the battles in which he’d fought − whatever he tried, his mind came back to gnaw on the problem of Tulkington and his actions. He had little doubt who had set the riot in motion, which saw him burnt out, not that the deed would have been done by his own hand: it would have been left to Hawker. A cheering image of him on the receiving end of the beating he deserved was a short but pleasant distraction. Mostly he was assailed by a mixture of anger and hopelessness, returning constantly to Betsey and how he could bring about her rescue.

  Eventually, having enough of this circular gnawing, he went back inside to look at the books Zachary ha
d left on top of the chest: surely here was distraction. The Bible he ignored, knowing it too well for, as a ship’s captain and lacking a parson on board, he’d been obliged at sea to take divine service an endless number of times of a Sunday morning. The others were a mix, one on treating ailments in horses, a Smollett he’d read, the largest Johnson’s dictionary, a copy of which he had left, along with many other things, books and bits of personal property, with his prize agent in London.

  Two of the others looked the same, bound in tooled leather with no indication of what lay within. Flicking one open and seeing fine handwriting, with the page dated, he realised it was a diary, his first instinct to put it down. Yet these surely were the property of Zachary’s rescuer, journals which spoke of the life of a man now dead. If they’d been written and left, it was to be read. The newest-looking one being opened at the very back page, he saw the writing was far from neat and he carried on to realise he was reading the words of a man who knew he was dying.

  There was the plea to the Almighty for forgiveness of a life of sin, the details no doubt previously listed. Venables had scrawled a wish his good servant Zachary be preserved, the desire he should live in comfort on the land about to be left to him, with an additional inscription to say who had possession of his will and testament, presumably a local solicitor. Taking both diaries back to the bench, Brazier, having gingerly lowered himself down once more, went back to the beginning and the perfect, if small, copperplate.

  This, dated in 1777, described what Venables found on taking up a surgeon’s position with the 3rd Regiment of Foot. It stated for whoever was to read it, this was the local East Kent Regiment known as the Buffs, bound for the Americas to bring back into the royal fold the troublesome colonials. There was a curious one-line declaration.