Blood Will Out

by David Donachie

  Who could she ask? There was no one. If the letters she was receiving genuinely came from the diaries of such a creepy character, then the implication was plain, as were, etched in her memory, the days before her husband rode off and failed to return. There had been some prior meetings with Acton, which could not have been pleasant, regardless of how much both he and Samuel sought to keep up the appearance of cordial relations. Not that she’d been aware of any other truth, which made it galling Samuel − if as reported − had confided in his ‘friend’.

  ‘Dear Sam, indeed! How dare the upstart use a diminutive?’

  She’d never much cared for Venables. He was, to her, very much mutton dressed as lamb at best, for all Acton treated him with what she saw as inappropriate indulgence. To Sarah Lovell, such behaviour just exposed the parvenu status of the family her sister had married into, a tribe she knew to be not long off the beach, having manners, which, to her mind and her standards, no amount of money could burnish.

  Venables had been even lower in her estimation, a simpering nobody whose only skill lay with the curation of the ailments afflicting horses or dogs, as if that amounted to anything. Who cared about such creatures anyway? If they fell ill it was easy to buy another one, a thought to hit her hard on consideration. It was a long time since she’d had money of her own to replace anything.

  It was no surprise her mind turned to the other hint, one she was partially ready to embrace. Samuel had not deserted her for another woman, as she’d supposed at the time and agonised over for near ten years. He had been the victim of a foul deed, while she was resident in the very house of those who had carried it out. Henry had apparently told Venables it would be best to mind his own business. What ‘business’ was he referring to?

  The notion of challenging her nephew barely got a moment’s consideration. He disliked being asked about matters mundane, things to do with the running of the house, so he was unlikely to enlighten her about something as serious as what was being implied. But Dirley Tulkington had been around some of the time and heavily engaged with his half-brother. This was something of which she’d mightily disapproved at the time. In her world, it was risking social disgrace to be known to possess an illegitimate relative; to have him under your roof was an abomination, a fact she hoped she’d made plain to Dirley on the few occasions he had visited after Acton passed away.

  She had cut him dead at Elisabeth’s wedding and, when enquired of as to his name and situation, had fobbed people off with a display of ignorance. Could she ask him now what he knew? Certainly there was a lack of cordiality in their relationship, just demonstrated in her abandoning the dining room, but could he be charmed into seeing her as less of an enemy − even, in time, a friend?

  More importantly, could she put aside her aversion to his status and engage with him? Who would know outside these four walls? No one and, if she could extract from him anything about the disappearance of her husband, it would allow her to challenge Henry with some hope of disclosure. Once she had what she sought, there was no need to keep up any pretence of holding him in any regard. A smile crossed her lips as she recalled what she’d overheard. Somehow Elisabeth had got a letter out of Cottington, only the Good Lord knew how and no doubt she would get the blame.

  Was that the key to breaking the ice, for if he’d come at Elisabeth’s request, he must know of recent happenings, while she was in a position to back up anything her niece said, albeit such would have to be imparted without Henry knowing. It took no genius to see Elisabeth would be asking for help to get an annulment. She could pretend to be an ally, could tell what happened on the night of the sham betrothal and say, truthfully, how upset she’d been, could infer she was willing to act as a witness to help prove Elisabeth’s case.

  There was no need, should it come to an action to dissolve the marriage, to stand by what had been imparted in private. In short, she could not take an oath to bear witness in public against Henry, could not contemplate being slung out of Cottington Court and on to the cold, unforgiving street. Sarah Lovell resolved to go up to her room and get out a better dress than the one she was wearing, while a bit of powder and rouge would also not go amiss. Knowing she was not, in any strict sense, a beauty, she had other attributes to make an impression. She was possessed of exquisite manners and had a certain amount of breeding, enough surely to work her wiles on a parvenu bachelor in his sixth decade.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Henry Tulkington spent the remainder of the day, as well as the night, at the Lodge in Deal, gnawing on his troubles. In the morning he made his way to the slaughterhouse to alert John Hawker, to tell him his presence was required at Cottington Court and, in a much-filleted way, why.

  ‘Can’t do it,’ was the reply he got, which did not go down well.

  ‘What do you mean “can’t”!’

  ‘I’ve got our cargo comin’ tonight an’ arrangements to make.’

  ‘Then we have the whole day.’

  ‘Which I need to be sure it’s safe.’

  It was with close to childish pique Henry said, ‘Then it will need to be put off.’

  ‘There ain’t no way to do it,’ Hawker insisted. ‘You stay well away from this, your honour, which is the right way, so you wouldn’t know.’

  Which was not strictly true. It was not impossible, but it would require good fortune. He could send the cutter back out to delay the landing until the next night, but there was no assurance they would find the vessel before it got dark and they’d never spot it afterwards. No captain running contraband would hang about off St Margaret’s Bay. In order to maintain the appearance of innocence, he would up his helm and head out to sea as if on the way to another destination, only coming about when necessary to make his landfall at the right time.

  ‘There has to be, surely?’ got a firm shake of the head.

  Henry began pacing up and down, audibly cursing under his breath, finally stopping to turn and face Hawker. ‘At what time will the landing be complete?’

  ‘Well afore sunup.’

  ‘And I assume then your task is finished?’ A slow suspicious nod. ‘Then come from there to Cottington as soon as you’re done. And John, come armed, for there could be work to do of the kind of which my father would mightily approve.’

  The look inviting enlightenment was ignored. Henry Tulkington stomped down the stairs, knowing he’d have to return home now. A whole day and night alone had given him his arguments and his conclusions, but they would have to be modified to gain time. He would seem to bend to what he was bound to be asked for, which would hold till Hawker arrived.

  Then he could put his proper plan into action and force acceptance of his authority. Back at the Lodge he wrote a note to be sent round to Doctor Rudd, requesting he attend on him at Cottington Court mid-morning the next day, a summons he was sure he’d obey. Then it was back in his coach and heading out of Deal, his first question being to Tanner when he arrived outside, to ensure the instructions he’d issued on the way out the day before. No one was to be allowed to leave and it had been obeyed. The gateman reassured him it was so, without adding no one had tried.

  The signs were there, but neither Vincent Flaherty nor Saoirse Riorden had been looking and besides, they could not be classed as street or beach people, having a higher or different calling; likewise those who frequented the Lodge, much of what happened in the town being too far beneath their noses to attract attention. This debarred them from much of the rippling gossip which fed the endemic inquisitiveness of a population, whose day, or the toil this entailed, rarely varied unless the weather was dead foul and stopped it altogether.

  Living on the strand, the state of the wind and water dictated their ability to earn and was thus closely studied. Thus, over centuries of scrutiny, what lay in the offing was rarely a mystery. They knew the tides, could read the formation of the clouds, extract warnings from the run of the sea and sniff the wind for signs of bad weather long before it arrived. Likewise a period of calm could b
e forecast, when the running of contraband would be possible without the danger of drowning.

  The long pebble beach was a community with its own hierarchy, connections and internal dissensions, all in a constant state of flux. It was also a place of blether and a dearth of secrecy on who was doing what and why, some of it accurate, much of it not. Everyone had an opinion and were ever ready to share it.

  Certain parties had a sharper eye even than those on the beach, one group being the crossing sweepers, paid to keep certain points free of the filth of hundreds of horses, each of which seemed to traverse the central parts of the town dozens of times in a day. They could see and note everything, merely for the places in which they were positioned. So the presence or absence of certain parties, in the three streets forming the parish of Lower Deal, was easily noted.

  Far from the least of these was John Hawker, who, just for his imperious manner, daily strode the streets in a way which drew attention. Even with a fixed expression, there were those who claimed to be able to discern a mood, either darker or different, merely from his gait or level of condescension. It took acute observation and a constant presence in one place to mark Hawker as a man of habit. His routes were regular to those who occupied the same places every day of the week.

  Likewise the fellows he led, a tight-lipped bunch but liberal and noisy spenders in certain locations, most notably the couple of taverns they frequented. So when they were not to be seen at all, it set tongues wagging. There had been speculation two days past about what was afoot when none of them could be seen anywhere in the town, not least a query from the owners of the establishments in which they spent money. Traders and merchants with property and business to run and protect noted their ‘gifts’ were not being collected on the day they fell due. This died when they reappeared to take up their habits.

  Yet it represented an unforeseen crack in the security of the Tulkington operations. By laying so much on John Hawker, it created a lightning rod for what lay outside his twin occupations of tax and slaughter. There was no doubt he was the major source of contraband in Deal, the man who supplied near every business as well as a large number of private citizens.

  He had also come to be seen as a protector to the beach people. Over time, it was seen as sensible for any group of boatmen, contemplating a run to France, to alert Hawker of their intentions. They believed he possessed inside knowledge of the Revenue and their activities, for they were far from inactive. Within their limited means, they did as much as possible to interdict smuggling and could notch up the odd success.

  John Hawker, advised in advance, could say if the notion of a crossing was wise and, if it went ahead and the landing spot was threatened, he was the man to issue an alert to have it changed, which would put the Revenue men in the wrong place. His other trait, of occasionally alerting the very same authorities to keep them happy with arrests, was not known. But it did mean he was a man to look out for, if only just to attract his attention and have it acknowledged.

  Vincent Flaherty had taken to riding into town as soon as his morning tasks were complete, at least this was his excuse. It also allowed him to call upon Saoirse when the Old Playhouse was shut and he could be with her alone. The only impediment to the propinquity he sought lay in the number of people occupied in cleaning and restocking in preparation for a new trading day.

  It was better when she occupied her office on the ground floor, small enough in itself, made more cramped by the bundles of paperwork and ledgers, which went with her business affairs. Able to take a chair and sit very close, it was perfect as far as Vincent was concerned. Not so Saoirse. In order to keep his flights of romantic innuendo at bay, very obvious in such a confined space, she’d taken to undertaking errands she could claim went with her trade, while he would wait for her to return.

  If it was remarked upon she was seen more frequently than normal of a morning, it was positive to some, not least the crossing sweeper who had the post at the front of St George’s Church, one of the busiest in town and not very far from her front door.

  ‘Good day to you, Jack.’

  ‘Miss Riorden,’ came as he looked for a gap in the traffic, by which he could brush the road clear of dung for her and others to cross. ‘Happy as ever to see you.’

  ‘And a nice day it is.’

  ‘Good weather for a while is the word.’

  The coin slipped into his hand disappeared into a leather pouch, without any acknowledgement by look or deed to say it was silver, not the normal small copper.

  Jack, for he had no other name, was a sad-looking creature, as befitted his occupation, clad in clothing close to rags, with a face where grime surpassed flesh. With drawn features he lacked a single tooth, this giving a wheeze to his voice. But he had good if watery eyes, peepers which observed everything.

  ‘So what’s goin’ on in the world this fine day?’

  Jack’s lips compressed into a gurning smile, his eyes taking on a sly look. ‘Saw certain parties heading south, first thing.’

  ‘Anyone I know?’ was quietly put.

  ‘I’d say if you was awaiting owt delivered, then it’ll be over by the morrow.’

  ‘Hawker?’

  ‘None other, an’ his lads as well.’

  Jack dashed between the twin lines of carts, which gave way, allowing enough time to employ his brush, his progress followed by those needing to cross. It was only when he was on the other side, leaning on said brush, he realised Saoirse Riorden had not done so. She was hurrying back to the Old Playhouse.

  Vincent put his horse to a gallop in order to let Brazier know the landing seemed imminent. He found him using a stick as a pretend sword, thrusting, cutting and parrying in the way he’d been taught and had practised since his days as a young midshipman. It caused him pain, but this he accepted: it had to be borne, given his intention to confront John Hawker − to do so without he could employ his sword would be foolish. The others were, as normal, being ordered about by Zachary in any number of tasks. Presented with a chance to mend his fences and see to his hop poles for free, Zachary was not going to pass up the chance.

  ‘How sure can we be?’ was Brazier’s first question.

  ‘Does it not tell you how progress is marked? His men being out of Deal two days was all the talk? I can’t be certain and neither can Saoirse, but the signs are there for a landing this very night.’

  ‘Then we must trust them.’

  ‘You have, I hope, a plan?’

  ‘Not one fully formed yet. So let us sit and share a glass of the wine you fetched while I think on it.’

  ‘Whatever you intend needs a clear head, Edward.’

  ‘Then I will be abstemious, I promise.’

  Sat side by side on the bench, Brazier told Flaherty of how he’d freed Spafford’s men then humbugged the pair of guards Hawker had left behind, a tale to provoke much amusement.

  ‘The thing is, Vincent, I said not a word to Dutchy and the others of what I intended. Yet they took up the notion so quickly and with such conviction, even I was astonished. Mind, I know from experience how eager a tar is to guy anyone gullible, lubbers especially.’

  What followed was a few of the tricks the hands of his first ship had visited upon him as a midshipman, like being sent aloft to find a sky block or being encouraged to piss into the wind, with obvious results.

  ‘The pair were convinced they were going to hang if silent, so spilt everything I needed to know about the landing.’

  ‘Everything?’

  This point had Brazier acknowledge to himself certain problems. Much as they would insist on accompanying him, he could not involve the men who’d come at his request to provide protection. With the risk of serious harm or even death very high, it had to be for him and him alone to bring about what was needed, none of which was vouchsafed to Flaherty. The Irishman sat silently sipping as he watched his companion in deep thought, ruminating on the difficulties of securing several outcomes. The ultimate aim was still to get Betsey free
of her brother. To do that he had to remove from the equation John Hawker without forfeiting his own life, while at the same time ensuring damage to the whole smuggling operation. Did he have everything? The conclusion was, he had a great deal, but not quite enough.

  ‘Vincent, I thank you for what you’ve done on my behalf. Be assured I will find a way to do so properly.’

  ‘Sure, you’re staying whole will suffice.’

  Sensing the finality of this, the Irishman downed his wine and stood to shake hands, masking his concern at the way Brazier’s face reacted as he pumped his hand, an indication of how much the wound was still troubling him.

  ‘It’s my fond wish to see you on the morrow, Vincent and with a resolution. Take my regards to Saoirse as well as my gratitude for what she’s done.’

  Flaherty mounted to then look down at Brazier, with an expression which carried the look of a last farewell. The response to this was a confident grin.

  ‘There are some people, my friend, who have no idea of the trouble they’re in.’

  ‘May God go with you?’

  A nod and he was gone, with Brazier heading indoors to fetch out the writing case. He then headed for the paddock, to take out Bonnie and saddle her, waving to those working to carry on as they looked to see if he wanted their help. At a trot he made his way to the Spafford farmhouse and once there, asked to be left alone with Marker, door closed, which had Dolphin and his mates confined to the kitchen, not one willing to wait outside.

  ‘Never know who might be watchin’, your honour,’ was the excuse.

  Marker, sullen as he had been originally, was brought to sit opposite Brazier at the large table, the writing case between them. Opened, a quill was taken out, as well as a sheet of paper, the case then turned round once the inkwell was opened.

  ‘I can’t write, if it be what you’se after.’

  The quill was handed over. ‘I want you to draw me a map.’