Blood Will Out

by David Donachie

  Henry had issued the instruction all mail was to pass through him, she assuming this applied to Elisabeth, not her. Anyway, it was on the salver on the hall table, a plate she could not resist looking at on a daily basis once the post had been delivered, and there was her name. Had it said whom it was from, it’s doubtful she would have broken the seal: it did puzzle her whoever had sent it had not bothered to put their return address, which hinted at parsimony. Failure of delivery meant a return to sender, with them having to pay the price of both postings. Still, the cost fell to the household so, like whosoever had penned it, she was not going to be subject to any charge.

  With Henry gone to Deal and Elisabeth out walking, she was free to read it at her leisure. Having ordered tea, which involved the staff asking Grady to unlock the caddy, she took a seat in the drawing room and opened it while waiting for the beverage. The maid who delivered it found her sitting with the letter open on her lap, face white and expression rigid as she stared out of the window, the tray being put at the table by her side receiving no acknowledgement.

  ‘Would ma’am be requiring anything else?’

  The lack of a reply sent the girl out, to immediately discuss this phenomenon with every member of staff she met who shared her menial level, so they could speculate on what news Sarah Lovell had received to render her so distraught. Bad, I hope, was the general opinion. Had anyone gone back to look, they would have been pleased to see her in tears. By the time the tray was retrieved, she had left the room, it being noted the cup was unused and the pot still full.

  For Edward Brazier, having set two hares running, the question was what to do next. With no idea of how his graveyard ruse would work, the notion of just sitting around was not one to appeal. Feeling better as each day went by, he craved some kind of action, yet was at a loss to know what would tweak Tulkington’s nose more than the things already put in place.

  ‘All we can do is look for opportunity, which means keeping an eye on Hawker.’

  ‘Who will be on full alert after what’s happened.’

  Dutchy’s point did not require elaboration: up to the stealing of the bodies, they’d been an unknown presence and threat, able, within limits, to move freely and, two of them excluded, take up places of observation without arousing suspicion. No more; the farmhouse must now have watchmen out, while any observation on the slaughterhouse would be risky.

  ‘Which leaves the route between,’ Brazier concluded. ‘Hawker is in Deal, his men out here, along with how many others we don’t know. Seems to me not much can happen to act as a threat to us unless they’re back as a whole. As to what’s happening in town, Vincent will keep us informed and he will be coming here today.’

  It would be with money. He had an arrangement to draw regular funds with a lawyer in Deal, the one who’d acted for Saoirse in the matter of his rent, who in turn would indent his prize agent in London for the sum plus a small fee. Vincent had been sent with a written and sealed instruction, authorised to collect twenty guineas in mixed coin on behalf of Captain Brazier. No money in quantity was required out here, but not knowing what was going to happen next, he wanted a full purse just in case.

  ‘So we keep an eye on the Sandwich Road afore it splits to the farmhouse, easy to find a spot where we can’t be seen.’

  ‘In pairs, Peddler. One to come back here if anything sets bells ringing.’

  With Cocky and Peddler off on first watch, and the others once more assisting Zachary, Brazier sat down with the Venables journals to copy out certain entries on the relationship between him and Dear Sam. He had no idea what the effect would be; it was a ploy with unreadable consequences and perhaps none. But anything which affected the equilibrium of the Tulkington household had to be tried. He was still occupied in his copying when Vincent appeared on horseback, bearing a bag of coins and some welcome news about how the town had reacted.

  ‘Sure, the whole damn place is throbbing with rumour.’

  ‘Blaming John Hawker, I hope.’

  ‘If they are, it’s with care. His is not a name to bandy about in such a situation.’

  ‘The magistrates?’

  ‘Probably trying to find a way to do nothing. Get the bodies in the ground then set up an inquest going nowhere. I talked it over with Saoirse and she’s of a mind they will do as little as they can, and they’ll certainly do their best to avoid anything touching Tulkington.’

  ‘Cottin?’

  ‘Asking for facts and getting not very far, I should think.’

  ‘Then he needs a bit of assistance. Can I impose on you to drop off another note?’

  ‘Course you can.’

  Brazier reached into the bag Vincent had brought and pulled out a couple of guineas, to see the Irishman pull a face, to which he paid no heed.

  ‘I’m taking you away from your own affairs, Vincent. And I will remind you, I felt the need to reward you for your efforts when we were searching for the mysterious Daisy creature, before we knew it to be Trotter. Now is no different, and if you decline I will ride into Deal myself and make delivery.’

  Acknowledgement came with a swerve. ‘Garlick will be pulling at his whiskers trying to work out who these notes are coming from.’

  Laughter brought a twinge of pain, but it was less troublesome by the day so he could reply without wincing. ‘He’ll make something up if he fails to find out and very likely have to. I’ve yet to meet this Cottin, but common sense should tell him to avoid giving Garlick anything to chew on. Perhaps best if you invent something.’

  The note was quickly written, for it contained few words, to be folded and sealed with no named sender added.

  ‘Next time you come, Vincent, fetch some wine, will you? Zachary’s cider is a good brew, but too strong for my head.’

  John Cottin was indeed struggling to get anywhere once again: no one tending their vegetables admitted seeing anything in the graveyard on their way past. When he referred to the smell, it was pointed out to him what they used to fertilise their strips − cow dung and excrement − which meant no one could smell anything else. At least he’d been given the names, added to the information they might be involved in smuggling. When pressed to be more definite, Cavell and Tooke had become quite arch and offended, as if people such as they would know anything about such illegality. When challenged, they claimed the information had come from those in the crowd.

  Having left early, he came back to his correspondence; quite a pile and not of much interest, although every one would command a reply, until he opened one letter to find another inside. This being franked with a government stamp set his pulse racing for he had, to keep his identity secret, suggested anything sent to him should come through Westerham and a clerk alerted to what was required. It was indeed from Pitt, he first deploring the contraband trade, then thanking Cottin for his efforts to curtail it, which seemed to be stretching somewhat his own original communication. At the end, just before his felicitations, came the news he was planning to come down to Walmer within the week, which when Cottin examined the franking really meant, at most, five days.

  ‘Damn me if that doesn’t shake this damned town up.’

  Down below in the hallway, Vincent Flaherty was handing over Edward’s second note, like the first examined by Garlick for the addressee in a way he thought surreptitious. It was a sort of cocked eye sideways affair, with the paper held way from him.

  ‘Getting a lot o’ these,’ Garlick said eventually, when he realised he’d been spotted, not hard since Vincent was visibly amused. He was, nevertheless, in search of enlightenment.

  ‘From a lady,’ Vincent whispered, which caused the proprietor’s eyes to open wide.

  ‘A lady?’ was mouthed, not spoken.

  ‘One who does not want her name to be known.’

  ‘As if I’d let on to anyone, Mr Flaherty.’

  ‘A married lady, who has lost her heart to your Mr Cottin. To be exposed could bring on ruin.’

  ‘He ain’t been here long for such a
thing. Any roads, I don’t have him down as the type for dalliance.’

  ‘More than dalliance, Mr Garlick. We’re talking seduction.’

  ‘Well I never.’

  ‘Sure, its deep waters when it comes to lawyer types. We must not rely on appearances.’

  He didn’t laugh out loud till he passed through the door. Invent a tale, Edward had suggested. This one would be all over Deal before the day was out.

  At the Spafford farmhouse, Dolphin Morgan, who surprisingly had assumed a sort of leadership, was standing with his ear to the part of the door where age and movement of an old building had created a slight gap, for there was no ‘easy to hear’ shouting going on. In amongst the odd clearly stated words, he could hear nothing but a buzz of conversation and much movement. He knew, from his earlier eavesdropping, his captors were coming and going, unlike the first day, when they’d all been present and talking across each other and the noise had been consequently greater.

  When he could hear clearly, it was to register a moan at their present situation, which came as no surprise. The people holding them, from Hawker downwards, were not strangers to any of Dan Spafford’s crew. They were very far from friends but, in a close community like the one in which they spent their days, both parties knew of each other and, in the case of Dolphin and his mates, with regard to their counterparts, caution was mixed with envy.

  While they had recently needed to scrape for a crust – Dan Spafford’s profitability had been badly affected by the coming of peace – Hawker’s lot lived high on the hog and were arrogant with it, the kind to strut through the streets and expect way to be given. If they were involved in the same game, they didn’t rely on what could be got across the Channel and were never short of money.

  John Hawker’s gang lived off and spent ‘gifts’, monies handed over to them by the traders of Deal, which split evenly acted as a wage, allowing for food, drink and women in a quantity for which others could only wish. For entertainment, the odd workshop or emporium smashed up, or a boat holed, acted as a reminder to others of the cost of reluctance to pay. It was also true, when they did resort to violence, nothing was ever done about it – none would bear witness for fear of being the next to suffer.

  It could hardly be said Spafford’s lot were angels. While cautious of Hawker’s crew, even more of the man himself, they were not beyond a bit of unruly behaviour when in funds, as they had been during the American war, and downright mayhem from time to time; like most of the tribe who happily went under the banner of the beach community, adherence to a set of laws and obligations, set for them by their betters, were there to be ignored.

  ‘Marker’s telling them to stop moaning.’

  Dolphin passed this on to his mates in a whisper as he took a break to poke a finger into an itchy ear.

  ‘Hawker would just fetch them a clout,’ was the single response from Eastry Sam, so called for the village from which he’d originally hailed.

  ‘They ain’t happy, brother, fer certain. Not their normal way to spend the day lookin’ after us lot. Cock o’ the Walk is their game.’

  ‘Least we’re bein’ fed, Dolphin, an’ by Christ I hope we get some more grub soon.’

  ‘Scarce enough to keep a mouse,’ was a remark followed by a wistful look from a man whose frame was bigger than most. ‘Got to hand it to old Daisy, God rest ’im, he did look after our belly.’

  This, as it had before, brought on memories of better times, when a contraband cargo had been run and would be sold on, with coin in abundance for each of the men who manned Dan Spafford’s luggers. After landing and storing their goods, there would be a feast prepared for them by Daisy Trotter, this prior to departing for Deal and its fleshpots, to blow their gains with credit on which they knew they could make good. Seen as ill-gotten gains to the upright, it was a just reward to a smuggler.

  As was common, it was all a bit rose-tinted, with no recollection of the times the sea state had nearly seen them sent to the bottom, or the occasion when a Revenue cutter had appeared and they’d had to run from gunfire, but not before ditching their cargo. It also took them, in time, to a place most were reluctant to go. What was going to be their fate? The deaths of Daisy, Dan and his boy could not have been foreseen, but there was no feeling the likes of Hawker would hesitate to see them gone too. Being fed was one thing to give hope.

  Itchy ear seen to, Dolphin went back to his listening, to hear what sounded, by their exchanges, like some coming in and others going out and he had the right of it. The farmhouse was covered front and back by armed men, with another one sent out to the oak tree to keep an eye out over the flat landscape, looking for people in the distance acting odd. If anyone was coming to cause mischief, they wanted to be well warned.

  Even if he wasn’t entirely happy with them, John Hawker had his instructions and they had to be carried out. So he was on his way to the farmhouse, back on his own horse, which had been found and brought to him, for a reward, by a couple of the ragamuffins, identified by dint of the JH brand on its flank. There was no sign of his saddle, and his accusation the boys had stolen it produced the kind of furious denial which made it not worth pursuing. So he’d been obliged to persuade the local tack merchant to supply him one as a gift, at the risk of being shut off from the produce of the tannery if he declined.

  Peddler spotted him and gestured with a hiss to Cocky, unnecessary given how far off Hawker was. The Scot was up and beside his mate, well concealed by bushes, as they watched him ride by, pulling another loaded packhorse, eyes right ahead. A quick discussion established neither thought it worth rushing to tell Brazier: best to stay and see what happened after, like him going back to Deal.

  Hawker was deep in thought, wondering which of his men to leave as guards, deciding Marker − close enough to be one he would occasionally confide in and was a man he could trust − with one other to help him, whom he could choose. Both would be missed in what was coming and it was to such matters he turned his mind. Regardless of how many times he’d seen a cargo landed, Hawker always went over the arrangements to ensure all the possible measures were covered. They would not be this time, he being two men short, which had him wondering where he could allow a gap. He decided the clifftop path from the fishing village of Kingsdown could be left unguarded, since no threat was likely to come from the north.

  The men he employed were not along to act as porters: those people, and they were numerous, given the quantity being landed, came from round and about as word went out through a long-established grapevine. It told the people who lived in the vicinity there was a bit of coin to be made, pennies to folk and especially families, who lived with constant insufficiency; if they had jobs they were badly rewarded and many lacked even this, so there was a strong reason to spare a night of labour, then to keep their mouths shut.

  Deep cliffs surrounded the bay and, if you talked of a track, there was one, which presented the sole way in and out to get you to the beach, which would leave any Excisemen exposed. But there were narrow paths down to the shore and these had to be covered, a single gunshot enough to alert everyone if danger threatened. The others on guard and the porters would disperse, while the ship would haul off the shingle shore, long before any authority could get close enough for an arrest. The chalk cliffs being riddled with tunnels, those getting away would do so unseen.

  Long a location for the landing of contraband, Corley Tulkington had ruthlessly driven off other smugglers seeking to use St Margaret’s. It had, since his time, been the family’s to exploit, with anyone else going near it spotted and warned off, one gang from the Alkham Valley who’d failed to listen never heard of again. There was a permanent presence to ensure no repeat, a cottage at the top of the bay permanently occupied by a fellow on Hawker’s payroll, there to warn of encroachment, but with another vital task. He was required to show one of the two shaded signal lanterns to the offshore vessel, to guide it safely in to the middle of the strand, avoiding the rocks on both promontories. John Hawk
er manned the other and was very much in charge. He gave the signal the approach was clear.

  It would also be necessary for Hawker to send a couple of his lads into Dover, as a precaution, to sniff for any impending activity. This was where the Revenue men were based, though the White Horse Tavern was the place to listen in on their talk and even buy them a pot of ale. As a group they were poorly paid and far from energetic in carrying out their task, while rarely being supported with the funds to maintain their cutter.

  The politician at the top of the chain, an aristocrat already rich, held the sinecure for the county, one valuable for the length of its coastline and its proximity to France. Most of the money paid to him for this sinecure stuck to his own fingers, little of it passed on to those doing the work. A sour joke was oft repeated: the man who held the office called The Riding Officer for Kent Customs was too old and infirm to get on a horse.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The Spaffords, or to be exact Dolphin and his eavesdropping, knew Hawker had arrived, first by a burst of activity, followed by the loud issuing of what sounded like instructions, none of which he could clearly make out. He had to jump away as the lock on the door clicked. It swung open to reveal John Hawker holding a pair of pistols, the look in his eye enough to have even those who’d not been inside a church since baptism crossing themselves, by which time they were, to a man, pressed against the far wall.

  ‘Don’t know why I don’t take you outside, one by one, and put a ball in your brain.’

  A voice came from over his shoulder, recognisably Marker’s. ‘Skull, John, there’s can’t be much brain to stop a ball.’

  ‘You have the right of it,’ was said over his shoulder before the look fixed on the Spaffords again. ‘But know this, you lot, Dan has gone to meet his maker and if you don’t want to join him, then do what I say. When you hear two knocks on the door, you’se got a couple of seconds to get to where you is standing now. Anyone not with their back right to the wall gets shot and no askin’, do you get me?’