Blood Will Out

by David Donachie

  ‘Of course.’

  The examination was carried out while Dutchy and Peddler unloaded the bodies, as Brazier had suggested, laying them out near the piled-up manure Zachary used as fertiliser. The horses, free of tack, were put into what was now, for its size, a crowded paddock. Indoors, shirt off, Brazier was lying face down as Zachary bathed his back, first with water and then an application of extract of witch hazel, which was cool and soothing on the skin, but not much use for the seat of his now throbbing and constant pain.

  ‘If I take enough coin, sir, I can acquire more laudanum from the apothecary.’

  Brazier nodded towards his coat, back on the hook by the fireplace. ‘Take what you need.’

  ‘Can I say, sir, you need to sleep as well.’

  Which he did throughout the morning − four hours in duration, familiar from watch-keeping at sea − along with Dutchy and Peddler, once they’d had some food.

  John Hawker was dressed for riding, wearing the kind of thigh-high boots which made walking uncomfortable, not least for their weight. This caused strained hams and aching calves well before he caught sight of the buildings of Deal. The ground was dry from days of good weather too, throwing up dust at every step, more when a rider of a cart passed by, not much noticed by a mind concerned with a multitude of thoughts. He had, in his imagination, done for Brazier in a dozen different ways, the most satisfying a vision of strangling him with his bare hands.

  But with the town coming close he had to concentrate, to go over and hone his excuses to the point where they made, at least to him, some kind of sense. The sight of Tulkington’s armed coachmen, standing by the conveyance, added to their lifted eyebrows and wry smiles, had him wonder at what so amused them. He was under the equally curious gaze of Cocky Logan, watching the slaughterhouse from the corner of a nearby building, equally mystified as to why, having been seen by Joe Lascelles to depart on horseback the day before, leading a pair of pack horses, he was now on foot and covered in dust. Having thudded up the stairs, Hawker found his employer seated, legs crossed, he too adopting an expression of amused curiosity as he came in view, which deepened after an up and down look.

  ‘I find you covered in filth, John. Have you been wrestling your horse, perhaps?’

  As an attempt at humour it fell flat. With a dry-throated voice Hawker croaked, ‘If your honour don’t mind, I need to get these damn boots off. An’ I need a wet too, so if you could spare me a moment …’

  ‘I have been waiting for some time and I do have other matters to attend to.’

  It wasn’t a no, but it might as well have been. In addition, Tulkington was sitting in the chair he would have dearly liked to occupy. As Hawker admitted he had a problem to relate, the slightly amused look remaining on Tulkington’s face evaporated, to be replaced by one of disbelief. Nor did he remain sitting in a relaxed way, soon changed to one of outright anger.

  ‘I’m struggling to believe what you’re telling me.’

  ‘Has to be Brazier.’

  ‘You think this sufficient as an explanation? Why did you take no precautions?’

  ‘Did we not both reckon him out of it, happen even dead?’

  ‘I seem to recall you did so. I do not remember my being quite so sanguine.’

  There was a slight struggle with the word but no doubting its meaning. If Hawker felt aggrieved for what was, he thought, a piece of downright dishonesty, there was no point in saying so. He moved on to describe how it had been carried out, finishing on a more confident note.

  ‘I’ve sent my lads out to search, but you’ve got to ask yourself, Mr Tulkington, what can be his game.’

  The response was weedy complaint. ‘You know very well what his game is: to discomfit me. And if he succeeds, you will not be far behind. What am I saying, he has already humbugged you!’

  Suddenly on his feet, Tulkington spoke with calm fury. ‘I suggest you find a horse and join in the search. And John, bring those bodies back, at your peril should you fail.’

  ‘Peril!’

  For all his meek acceptance of what was a justified rebuke, this was a word taking matters to the different dimension of a serious threat. He was not going to let it pass and, given his feelings were manifest in his infuriated countenance, Henry knew he’d gone too far: what he had said was clearly seen as presaging menace.

  ‘I meant our peril,’ came with the kind of feeble arm waving, which suggested an error. It didn’t wash and Hawker was so incensed he lost his normal self-control. He had been humiliated by Brazier as far as he could work out. This, added to what his employer was implying, broke a dam, one which had been building for weeks.

  ‘Peril we would not be suffering if’n you’d let me see to Spafford first off. Likewise the lot of ’em. Dealt with proper, an’ we wouldn’t have had this now.’

  It wasn’t just the words used, but the passion behind them, which rattled Henry. It was a direct challenge to his position, a statement he, as the man with whom rested the decisions, had made not just a bad choice but one the end of which it was not possible to foresee. Having broken a boundary of how he dealt with his employer, and his temper high from everything which had occurred, including his sore legs and feet, Hawker was not about to stop.

  ‘You can’t duck, dive and play the gent, which is your way. You has to come down hard and quick on any sod who crosses you. Soon as we knew the Spaffords had filched those two cargoes, Dan should have been found with his throat slit in the Lower Valley Road, a message plain to all.’

  ‘Are you mad? A body in the street? How many times have I told you, we cannot act with impunity?’

  ‘Fancy words don’t serve, an’ I take leave to say plain, your pa would not have stood off from what was needed, and he was man enough to see to it hisself if need be.’

  He might as well have slapped Henry Tulkington across the face. In total silence he walked past Hawker and thumped his way down the stairs, as if using his footwear to send a message. He left an employee breathing deep and far from calm, one well aware of the bridge crossed and far from unhappy it had finally taken place. Too many times he’d kept his mouth shut when he should have spoken plain. If Tulkington was too lily-livered to take what was the truth, so be it.

  The coachmen were on the box in a flash, having seen the face of their master, who instructed them to take him home, a journey in which he fumed. Once there, he called for his horse, riding out as soon as it was ready. There was only one place he could go to gain relief from the mood he was suffering and it was taken at a fast canter, an unusual pace for him, so keen was he to get to where he needed to be.

  It was a more relaxed Henry Tulkington who, two hours later and at a slow trot, rode home. This new mood came from much physical and mental humiliation, followed by a wonderful gush of carnal release, left behind in the cottage where the whip had been applied, the insults to his inadequacies spat at him, followed by gobbets of actual fluid, until finally he had been granted, after a crying plea and a golden guinea proffered on bended knee, the right to gratify his lust on the disdainful whore’s body.

  He had much to ponder on, but then he always had. Should he require to make changes, the time was not propitious. There was a cargo due, the last before the short nights of high summer made smuggling too risky and for that he needed John Hawker. But there would be a gap of two months to follow, in which he must find a way to alter matters so he never had to face a repeat of what had happened at the slaughterhouse. He also needed to take full control of the family enterprise. Those who deferred to him, Hawker included, must do so absolutely and, if they did harbour any dissatisfaction, they must keep it to themselves and simply do as they were ordered.

  The first thing he did on returning home was to sit down and write to his Uncle Dirley once more, telling him, in no uncertain terms, when it came to Elisabeth, there were matters of which he had no knowledge and he was to cease to interfere.

  It was obvious to her, if Henry had intercepted her letters, always assuming
he hadn’t destroyed them, they would be somewhere in his study, a place he held to be sacrosanct. No one was welcome to enter when he was out of the house, a stricture Elisabeth had broken once before, not long after Edward, making a surprise visit to Cottington Court, had told her the real nature of her brother’s affairs, as well as his recourse to violence when thwarted.

  She blushed now to recall how she’d reacted, coming close to accusing him of lying, intimating he was no longer welcome to call on her, also any hint of matrimony was no longer to be pursued. It was in defence of her father, of course, for he’d been included in the disclosure of what was a family trade and this she could not abide. She had resolved to challenge Henry directly, to see if there was any truth in the allegations, his denials far from convincing. Hence her visit to his study, spontaneous and opportunistic, her aim, to find if anything existed that would prove the contention true or false. It had proved fruitless: she was confronted with shelves full of ledgers, too many to examine, while his desk drawers were locked.

  Discovered as she exited, Elisabeth had tried to convince Henry of her innocent intentions, but by one slight and physical movement, she established not only had she failed to carry off the deception but there had to be substance in Edward’s accusation. From this came the decision to elope. This effort to get to his inner sanctum was brought on by desperation: doing nothing was driving her mad and opportunity was there. It was easy to tell when Henry was out of the house, much harder to make her way to the study without being observed by either her aunt or a servant. As well as Grady, Cottington Court had four maids, two of whom were really skivvies to do the cleaning, plus a pair of footmen, while the kitchen boasted the cook and her two scullery girls, with a dozen more outside caring for the garden and the stables.

  She chose a time when Grady would be on duty, which was most of the day, since he held his position to be one he had no desire to delegate. If he saw her heading down the side of the staircase to the study he might turn a blind eye: he’d already shown he would help where he could. Provided there was no sudden return by Henry, as had happened before, she trusted him not to tell. The risk was not just discovery; there was still the threat of Harry Spafford, given no promise of Henry’s was worth the breath employed to utter it. Get caught and this could become a certainty, with the fate she so dreaded, which could descend upon her and no one would lift a finger to help.

  Stood on the landing, listening out for movement, she felt like a foolish child, especially after a few downward steps were taken, to be quickly retracted when she heard a noise, this happening twice and with opportunity slipping away. Heart beating, Elisabeth resolved to be bold, making her way to the hall without guile, to skip down the passage when she found it empty. On tiptoe she approached the study door, which swung open silently. Once through she closed it with care.

  On the north side of the house, even with wide and high windows, it was a room cut off from much of the daylight by high trees. For once there was no fire in the grate, not even embers, this an indication her brother was to be out for some time. Sadly, the same factors which had defeated her previously did so once more. Too many ledgers to study, those she did all relating to domestic matters; the desk drawers again locked, nothing on the desk of interest except …

  Half a dozen quills sat in a pot alongside writing paper in a box, bits of sealing wax in a tray along with a shaker of sand. The idea she could take the means to write foundered on the inkwell, heavy and sure to be missed, so there was no alternative but to sit down and pen something here. There was no doubt as to what needed to be imparted, her sham marriage and being close to a prisoner, albeit she was required to be brief, which eschewed any chance to polish her composition.

  Addressing it presented no problem − she’d corresponded extensively with Dirley from the West Indies − but there was no way to seal the letter once folded, due to a lack of anything to heat the wax. There being several half-used sticks, Elisabeth simply took one and, once she had, with great care, blown the sand off the letter and into the fireplace, slipped out. There would be candles tonight, so sealing the letter would present no difficulty. The problem was how to get it out of the house and sent on its way, and she could only pray Dirley would act upon it.

  Having just got her hand on the lower newel post, spinning to take the first riser, the door to the servant’s quarters opened and Grady came out. A short stare ended when he spun round and went back the way he had come, which had her run up the stairs. Back in her bedroom, door locked, the means of sending it occupied her thoughts, a task seemingly insurmountable. Yet it cheered her that a step had been taken; she was fighting back and nothing could be better for her spirits.

  Unbeknown to Elisabeth, Grady had appeared in the hall having been alerted to the imminent arrival of his master. Henry thus came very close to catching his sister for a second time. Once indoors and disrobed he went straight to his study. Irritated at the lack of a fire, he nevertheless sat down to write the letter to Dirley Tulkington he’d been composing in his head on the way home.

  Brazier awoke before the others, half his upper body so stiff he experienced difficulty in getting up, quick to note Zachary had yet to return. There was no need of a mirror to tell him he was filthy, added to which he had any number of scratches where he had caught brambles and bits of tree in the dark. Going outside to relieve himself, the position of the sun had him reckon it to be midday. Something to drink and a wash came first: raising the well bucket was even harder than it had been the day before, but at least he assuaged a thirst, before splashing a face he suspected was covered in grime, wincing as the water stung his minor abrasions.

  Making for the bench, he sat down to plot a course of action. No doubt Dutchy and Peddler thought there was a plan, but they were mistaken. There had been no point in forming one until the overnight action had worked out, which had been a long shot from the outset. Looking confident, as he had before they’d set out, was a habit, one honed by every naval officer needing respect from the crew: for the captain of a warship, a show of certainty was paramount, especially when going into action.

  Now he had three bodies and the need to work out the best way to employ them. The aim was to ward off any more attempts on his life as well as to get Betsey free of her brother’s clutches. A straight trade he put aside: he had no trust any arrangement would be adhered to and, once Tulkington had regained possession of the corpses, they would just disappear. Badly played, he himself might do so as well. As he weighed possibilities, it occurred to him how much Henry Tulkington must care for his reputation. For all his nefarious activities, it seemed to Brazier he played the part of the successful country gentleman. Could what he now had be used to dent such a carapace of respectability? He was weighing the notion when the call came out, a shout from Zachary to say he and his now loaded donkey were back.

  The horses were excited by the prospect of being fed; he was more taken by the small bottle he was given. Cap off, a goodly drop of the laudanum was taken and, by the time the oats had been mixed and consumed, Edward Brazier was in a blissful pain-free state, though one making any form of communication futile.

  Not too far distant, maybe not more than half a mile, a group of Hawker’s men were combing the woodland through which the villains who robbed them had made their way, the horses leaving a trail obvious to even the worst tracker, and circuitous it was. In time this took them out onto the open grass-covered marshland, where the trail disappeared. John Hawker, on a borrowed horse, found them as well as their lack of success, which allowed him to take some of his still boiling anger out on those who could not reply.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Sitting twiddling his thumbs all day was not John Cottin’s way. He had paid for and dealt with the correspondence from his Westerham office, letters which had arrived early, mostly enquiries from other districts of Kent, none of which were serious enough to require his presence, but as yet nothing from William Pitt. Allowances had to be made, since it was to be
routed through his office and sent on under a new cover to avoid his making contact becoming public. Garlick served him luncheon, in his usual way, probing to see if anything had occurred worth tucking away, only to lay out the last course of cheese visibly disappointed; Cottin refused to respond to his enquiries about the mail he’d received or to relate anything regarding his supposed trip to Dover.

  Feeling the need for air, he decided on a walk, first along Beach Street, which was just as named, a twin row of weather-battered stone houses either side of a narrow roadway, those on the west side containing a surprising number of taverns: every corner seemed to house a drinking den. Anything else, on both sides, seemed tumbledown constructs, with bits of wooden extensions added in a random fashion to an original building, the whole showing signs of dilapidation. These clearly provided living space for multiple families, being full to the brim with noisy human occupation, seeming more akin to crowded rookeries. This spoke to a man like John Cottin of as much criminality here as in the similar slum dwellings he’d been taken to see on a short visit to London.

  Between each building backing on to the shore, a narrow alleyway provided access to the strand so he, more than once, strolled down to stand on the sloping pebbles, there to marvel at the sheer quantity of folk involved in the activities necessary to serve the massed vessels in the anchorage. Drying fishing nets, lobster pots and crab creels told of another occupation, no doubt catches sold from the tables heaving with produce on the street behind. These were manned by a particular breed: thick-armed and broad-beamed women, generally toothless, with raucous voices, spouting foul language, who looked tougher than their menfolk.

  Further wandering took him back down to the Lower Valley Road and, in moving to pass the Old Playhouse, he observed it was open. Curious, he wandered past the two club-bearing toughs guarding the entrance, neither of whom spared him a glance. The room just inside and to the left contained numerous tables, at which a few men were playing cards, others merely drinking and talking. He took a seat intent on just sitting and observing, quickly approached by a serving girl, who took his order for a flagon of wine.