Chapter 20
He that worketh deceit shall not dwell within my house for their deceit is falsehood (Psalms 102 & 119)
The next morning he slipped out of the house as early as he could, and walked down to Low Street. The names Tortice and Wetlow sounded familiar to him. He was sure he had seen them somewhere.
Keeping a weather eye out for any Bunts or Durridges, though he thought it was probably much too early for them to be out of their beds, he wandered up one side of Low Street and down the other. This was a street of tall narrow buildings that leaned over and shut out the light. It was here that some of the business people of the town had their offices, the marine factors and chandlers and other desk-bound mariners who made a living off the sea without ever leaving their chairs.
He found it without difficulty. He must have walked past it a hundred times, and remembered it without thinking. Near the top of the street where it turned left to pass above the church, at the top of a flight of worn stone steps, a tarnished brass plaque beside a door announced “Tortice & Wetlow, Solicitors, Conveyances and Commissioners of Oaths”. The door didn't look as though many people had used it for a long time, but it gave at his touch.
He found himself in a long, low passageway, dim and redolent of old paper and older cooking. On his left was an open doorway, and inside the doorway at a vast desk sat a tiny man. The desk was covered with piles of papers, and the floor was too, and the chairs, and the bookshelves and the fireplace and the occasional table that stood in the window looking over the street.
“Yes, young man, can I help you?” said the tiny man. He was almost dwarfed by the desk and its cargo of papers, and had a pair of glasses sitting on top of his head.
“Er, could I speak to Mr.Tortice or Mr.Wetlow, please?”
“I'm Wetlow. Tortice hasn't been here these ten or fifteen years, and I've never got round to taking his name off the door. Always so much to do, you know ... I can't seem to find ... can you see my glasses?”
“On top of your head.”
“Oh! Of course, how silly of me! Can't find anything these days!”
The man smiled. His face was weak, and his eyes rheumy from too much staring at fine print.
“I'm surprised you can ever find anything in here,” Pert said, “I've never seen so many papers!”
“Yes, it is a bit daunting, isn't it?” Mr.Wetlow stood and gazed round in consternation. He was hardly any taller standing up than he was sitting down. “I used to have a system, you know. I could put my hands on the right papers in a trice. But it all seems to have got ... on top of me a bit. Now, how can I help? A will, is it, or a conveyance? Or do you want to swear an oath? I'm good at those!”
“No, thank you. My mother doesn't like me swearing. I was looking for some information.”
Wetlow sat down. “I'd invite you to sit, only I'm not sure what there is to sit on,” he said vaguely. “Information? What about?”
“The parish church accounts.”
Wetlow suddenly look wary. “What about them? They're nothing to do with us. Or with me, rather. I know nothing about them.”
“But you used to, didn't you? You and Mr.Tortice used to sign them every month?”
“Oh, but that was years ago. Before Tortice ... um, went, you know.”
Pert lifted a pile of papers from a chair, set them carefully on the floor, and sat down. “I've been looking at the accounts from after you and Mr.Tortice stopped,” he said. “There are one or two things I don't understand. What's “reconciliation”?”
“It means an agreement between two parties who are in dispute, but I can't think what it has to do with the parish accounts. There hasn't been a dispute, has there?”
“No, I don't think so.”
“Then there can be no reconciliation. Was that all?”
“Not quite. There seems to be something called “Reserve account”, and another one called “Diocesan Levy”. Do you know anything about them?”
“Nothing. There were never any such things in my day. What are they?”
“They just appear in the accounts, and money goes into them.”
“Hmm. Makes no sense to me, but you really ought to ask the vicar.”
“He's not very pleased with me at the moment. I put whisky in the communion wine.”
The man's face brightened. “I say! Did you really?”
“Yes. And it was his whisky.”
“Well, perhaps you should speak to whoever does the accounts now?”
“There aren't any. There haven't been for ages. There's no church council either, just the Vicar and Mistress Grubb.”
The man paled. He stood up. “In that case, there's nothing more I can do for you. Thank you so much for calling. Can you find your own way out?”
“But you haven't told me anything yet.”
“And I'm not going to. Young man, if Mistress Grubb is involved with this, then I am not. Now, I don't know your name ...”
“Sorry, it's ...”
“No!” Wetlow held up a hand to stop him. “I don't know your name and I don't want to know it. This conversation never took place. You were never here. Do I make myself clear?”
Pert did not move, but stared at Wetlow for a long time. “You're scared,” he said slowly. “It's Grubb, isn't it? You're scared of her.”
“Me? No, of course not. A man of the law has no reason to fear anyone. Now, please leave.”
“No. You'll have to throw me out. And I'm bigger than you.”
“Get out! I'll call ... er ... I'll call ...”
“Who you going to call? Listen, I'm Pertinacious Potts. I knocked the teacher over!”
Wetlow gasped. “Please,” he said, glancing round as though someone might be watching, “I can't help. I dare not. Not after what happened to Tortice. Please leave me alone.”
“What did happen to him?”
“His trousers ... she ...”
“What about his trousers?”
The man sat up straight and seemed to make an effort to pull himself together. He took a deep breath and said “She came to see him one night. I heard her shouting at him. I couldn't hear what she was saying, but he kept saying 'No, I won't', and then she slammed out. And the next night he was found in the churchyard with no trousers. He was all tied up, and covered in mud and ... other stuff, awful stuff, and the ladies from the choir found him when they arrived for choir practice, and people started to say he was some kind of mad man and was doing ... peculiar things ... and the next thing I knew he'd gone. He packed his bags and left, and I've been on my own ever since.”
“And you don't know what it was she wanted of him?”
“No idea. Please, I can't tell you any more."
"How did she get on the Church Council?"
"Get on the Church Council? How do you expect me to know? We just did the accounts, we didn't have anything to do with it."
"But you must have heard things. Was she elected?"
Wetlow slumped in his chair. "You don’t give up, do you?”
"No."
"You have to promise this won't go any further? You must promise me, or I'm saying nothing."
"I promise."
"Well, I can only say what I heard. I never went to any of the meetings or anything, it was only talk. No one elected her or appointed her. I think she just turned up one day, and no one had the courage to tell her she shouldn't be there. She was one of the leading businesswomen in the town, you understand, she had a finger in many pies, she had a hold over too many people, so they simply let her sit there. And gradually she took over. She'd hector them, just shout down any ideas she didn't like. She could make them vote for motions she proposed by plain force of character and persistence."
"And they let her? Even people like Sir Humphrey?"
"I think they realised that if they didn't agree with her, she'd just go on and on in that dreadful hoarse voice of hers. That huge wet mouth flapping and those big red cheeks staring round daring anyone to contradict her, un
til she got her way. And if anyone opposed her, she'd accost them in the street, buttonhole them in that unpleasant way she has, and polite society people can't stand that. She'd always choose a time when they were late for an appointment, or they were with friends whose good opinion they valued, or at some other time when they would be most embarrassed, and she'd hold them by the arm and talk, talk, talk at them until eventually they just caved in from sheer exhaustion and revulsion. It was only the Church Council, after all. It was worth it to get rid of her."
"I can imagine."
"And did they get any thanks for it? No, she remembered every tiny slight, every raised eyebrow, every heavy sigh, every glance at the clock or at the door. She'd note every resistance, however feeble, and one way or another, sooner or later, they'd pay. Oh, she was a terrible woman. Still is. Now, that's really all I can say. Please, go now, I don't want to end up ... I have no desire to be exposed before the ladies of the choir, thank you. Please, young man ...”
“But there isn't a choir any more.”
“Maybe not. But there are trousers, and I'd rather hang on to mine. Good day to you!”
When Pert reached the bottom of Low Street he ran into the twins.
“I say,” said Seth excitedly, “what's this we hear about you and your sister being chased all over the town by Bunt and his cronies? How did you get away?”
“Oh, it was easy,” he said airily. “We slipped down an alley and hid out at Billy Moon's mother's house. Then when they'd gone, we went home.”
“You went to Primrose Moon's? Wow! What was she like?”
“Rather nice, actually. She says she wants to meet my mother.”
Solomon laughed. “I think your mother might have a thing or two to say about that!” he said. “Anyway, there's something going on this morning. There are people standing around in the street, looking daggers and muttering. Something's upset them.”
“And Bunt's dad and Durridge's dad are going round asking questions,” said Seth. “They pushed Amos Rossidge up against a wall and said they'd bash him if he didn't tell them where your dad is!”
“How would Amos Rossidge know anything about my dad? He doesn't know what day it is, half the time.”
“I don't think it's him, particularly, they're asking anyone who might be scared of them, and leaving the ones who aren't. My dad walked past them earlier and they didn't bother him.” The twins' father was a small man but a well known pugilist in the town, and their mother had a famous right hook.
“We thought we'd go down to the quay and see if anything's going on down there. Want to come?”
Pert thought he would. If nothing else he could have a chat with Walter Glibbery.
The twins were right, it seemed. The quay was more crowded than normal, and there was less work going on. Boats were unmanned, and nets were draped unmended over the cobbles. Knots of fishers stood around, scowling. Members of Bunt's gang were moving from one to the other, but Pert noticed that the fishers were not being very welcoming. He thought that if the ruffians were seeking information among the fishermen, they'd find it in short supply.
Because of the fishermen Pert and the twins thought it safe to walk along the quay. If Bunt or Durridge approached them, they'd face up and the bullies wouldn't dare do anything. So it proved, but Pert felt uneasy all the same, for not all the bluff fishermen's faces looked friendly. There were some smiles, from those he knew well, but others were suspicious.
This is to do with the pirates, he thought. They're getting fed up with the pirates, and they think I'm in league with them because I was talking to them. That means they probably think I'm in league with Bunt and Durridge as well, which is ridiculous because I'm not. And I'm not in league with the pirates either. The pirates want something from me, so they're being friendly. I bet that could change in an instant if they thought I wasn't going to cooperate. Perhaps I should try harder to find out something about the treasure, and then I could tell them and they'd go away and it would all be over.
He realised that Solomon had been saying something to him. The boy was pointing towards the Drop o' Dew. Out of the alehouse door issued a file of pirates, Sabbage at the front. They were singing and laughing and pushing each other. The fat landlord stood at the door and watched them go, looking relieved.
As the pirates swaggered along the quay, a knot of fishermen drifted across and blocked their way. Then another group began to move as well. Pert and the boys stood transfixed. Something was happening. There was going to be a confrontation. He looked around for Bunt and the gang, and they too were aware that something was up. They had gathered together, and stood uncertainly between the two opposing sides. Clearly they didn't know which side they were on.
There were perhaps a dozen pirates. Pert recognised Matthew Shattock and Squance, with the very old pirate Samivell Secret in the middle, and the looming bulk of Will Smy at the back. They walked towards the fishermen calmly, their hands on the knives at their belts. The fishermen spread out to block their path, but Sabbage kept walking towards them, a grin on his face.
“Now then, my hearties, what be you a-wantin'?” he called. “You surely can't be a-wantin' to interfere with your fellow mariners what's goin' about their lawful business, can you?” He stopped in front of the fishers. Pert's heart was in his mouth. This was going to be bad.
But Sabbage was speaking again, speaking with power and authority that got him heard on a busy quarterdeck in battle. He was calling names.
“Tom Suffling,” he called, “Andrew Skedge! Show yerselves! Tobias Smnith, and Jed Scurrell and John Scutter, step you forward!”
Up the steps at the root of the breakwater came more pirates. They had evidently been resting and waiting there for just this eventuality. They were behind the fishermen, and they were armed with pistols and blunderbusses.
“There now,” said Sabbage jovially, “was there still something you gentlemen wanted to discuss, or can us God-fearin' seamen go back to our ship fer our wittles, what Cooky 'as been a-slavin' over this livelong mornin'?”
He waved towards the ship, and all eyes turned towards it. In the bow stood Trinity Teague, behind the gun he had uncovered. It was pointing straight at the fishermen, and its black mouth gaped threateningly. In the midships stood another figure, an old pirate with a wooden leg and a stocking cap. He stooped over the second gun, even larger, and in his hand was a smoking match.
“Need I say more?” said Sabbage sweetly. The fishermen dropped their heads and shuffled back. The pirates grinned and grimaced as they walked through the blockade, the armed men falling in behind. Once they had gone aboard, Pert noticed that two or three of them remained perched in the bows, keeping lookout. These pirates knew a lot more about military tactics than the innocent fishers. He also looked round and found that Bunt and his gang had vanished quietly away.
“There's no Diocesan Levy in this diocese,” said Septimus later that night. They were in his room. He sat in the chair, and Pert and Fenestra perched on the bed. Fenestra stared round, fascinated that it looked so different with someone else's clothes and books strewn around.
“This used to be my room, and now it feels all strange,” she said. “I'm amazed.”
“I'm sorry to have dispossessed you, my dear,” he said.
“Oh, that's all right. I like it in the attic. Pert's there, and my mouse, and you can get really cosy under the blankets when the wind blows. It's romantic.”
“You were saying about the Diocesan Levy?” Pert interrupted.
“Oh yes. Well, there are some dioceses that do it, but I've been in this diocese all my life. I was born not far from St.Portius's over on the other side, and I trained at the cathedral seminary, and my first curacy was in the poor part of town before I came here. The cathedral is a small one, but it is very richly endowed, and the bishop is a saintly man of frugal habits, so they have no need to levy the parishes. No, trust me, there is no levy.”
“And the other things? The Reserve Account and the Reconci
liation?”
“There could certainly be a Reserve Account, a bank or savings account where money could be put for safe keeping, but if there is, there ought to be another accounting of it, and there isn't. And Reconciliation, well, I have heard the word used in financial affairs, it's true. I think it means when you take two lots of accounts and fiddle around until they match. But there's only one set here ...”
“You know what this means, don't you?” said Pert. “This is cheating. He was relying on the fact that nobody would know what he was talking about, to pull the wool over their eyes.”
“I fear you are right, my dear boy. This is fraud of a simple and rather blatant kind. I wonder where the money went to?”
“I reckon Grubb's behind it,” Pert said. Fenestra stopped gazing round and looked at him wide-eyed. “She tried to get Tortice and Wetlow, well Tortice really, to do something similar, and he wouldn't, so she got rid of him, in a nasty way. And then she pushed her way onto the Church Council and wangled it so Prettyfoot could do the accounts, and he did it. They probably shared the money between them.”
“Why didn't Sir Humphrey stop them?” asked Fenestra.
“I think by then he was getting fed up with being on the Church Council. Grubb was bullying everyone and getting things her own way, so he lost interest and dropped out. So did all the others, one by one. Mrs.Wheable, and the Widow Dolphin and those others. It was easier to just sit at home and let her get on with things than it was to fight with her. I expect if they'd fought her, she'd have done something nasty to them, and they knew it.”
“And that's why they have a nice house, the Prettyfeet,” Fenestra said. “It's all the church money.”
“I found something else, too. Once they'd all gone and there was only Grubb and the Vicar running things, the payments from the Destitute Fund and the Poor Box kept coming in, but nothing went out. They kept it all. And then the accounts stop altogether.”
“Oh, my goodness!” exclaimed Septimus. “That is really wicked! So all the householders in town are paying their tax and it all goes in Mistress Grubb's pocket?”
“And the Vicar's, and he sits in that big vicarage drinking it in whisky and lusting after Rosella,” said Fenestra. “Whatever that means ...” she added unconvincingly.
Pert grinned at her. “I think you know exactly what it means,” he said.
She jumped up and said indignantly “No I don't! Well, perhaps I've got just a tiny idea. Eugh, I've just thought – do you think he lusts after me as well? I'm pretty too! How disgusting!”
Pert ignored her. “The thing is,” he said, “what can we do about it? Who could we tell, and would they take any notice?”
Septimus thought. “I suppose the proper person would be Captain Mattheson Fludd,” he said, “he's the magistrate. But I'm not sure ...”
“He's a crony of Grubb's,” said Fenestra. “April Scutch in my class, her mum's the cook there, and she says Grubb's always up there, and she comes in the kitchen and complains if the food's not to her liking, and it isn't even her house.”
Pert knew of Captain Fludd. He had a very large house at the top of the town, and several servants, and a carriage with two horses. He was a big, florid man with a red face, and a reputation as a drinker. His wife was a small, pale woman who rarely spoke, and his many children were also small and pale. They had a tutor, and didn't go to school, so whether they spoke or not, Pert didn't know.
“So,” he counted off on his fingers, “we can't tell the magistrate, we can't tell the Vicar because he's in it, we can't tell the Mayor because there isn't one, we can't tell the Free Fishers because there aren't any of them either. And if we tell the town, half of them won't believe us because they're scared to, and the other half will believe us but be too scared to do anything about it. What about the bishop?”
“The bishop. Yes, there's the bishop,” said Septimus. “But as I said, he's a good and unworldly man. He wouldn't know what to do, faced with such wickedness. Oh, he has the power. He could dismiss the Vicar on the spot. But he's never had to do anything like it, and the first thing he'd do would be to take advice from some of the other senior clergy, and the thing would leak out and get back to Grubb before anything could happen. She'd cover her tracks, and her revenge ...”, he shuddered. “I'm pretty scared of the Vicar, to tell the truth, so what she'd do would be ten times worse.”
“She'd probably put it about that you've been lusting after me,” said Fenestra smugly.
“Fenestra, you are truly impossible! I think I liked you better before you started growing up,” said Pert. “Isn't it about time you were in bed? Come on, we'll both go. We can talk about this till the cows come home, but we're not going to think of a solution tonight.”
“All right,” she said. “I've just thought of a story anyway.”
“I bet there's going to be some lusting in it, then,” Pert said as he shut the door behind them. He hoped she didn't really know what it meant, because he wasn't sure himself. But he didn't like the sound of it.
The Black Joke Page 20