The Contraband Shore

by David Donachie

  ‘But,’ Henry said, with a worried expression, ‘he will not live forever.’

  ‘Fear not, Henry: there’s a queue for the position when he expires and why would there not be, when the recipient will draw a good income for very little effort?’

  ‘Could you not acquire it?’

  ‘Wouldn’t serve, Henry: one remove is best. Besides, I have my chambers to consider.’ Seeing a degree of supplication, Dirley added, ‘But I do have some influence and it will be bent to ensuring we do not get anyone zealous as a replacement.’

  ‘I fear I must alert you to some losses, Uncle.’

  That did not occasion any surprise; losses were a part of the business, usually from the misfortune of a rare misreading of the weather. The Revenue men might be underpaid and generally lazy, but they could not draw a wage if they never caught anyone and, it had to be said, there was the odd occasion when someone employed was too keen for the good of the trade.

  One such fellow had caused so much grief to the occasionally enterprising Deal boatmen that they had sought help from John Hawker, known to be a person who could be relied on to provide a solution. He in turn, unknown to the supplicants, was required to ask of Henry Tulkington what he should do and, as usual, the request produced a typically clever solution.

  It was the habit of the Revenue, when they discovered contraband hidden in a cellar – the most obvious place to store heavy objects like kegs of brandy – to not only arrest the owners of the property and confiscate the goods, but to fill in said cellar with beach shingle so it could not be used again. Henry Tulkington, having thought on the matter, suggested to Hawker that burial in such a setting would be a fitting fate for this overeager Preventative, and it should be in one he had seen filled by his own activities.

  Carried out as suggested, it could not be done without involving others, which ensured the rumour of a live burial leaked out: little stayed secret in Deal amongst the long-resident inhabitants; it was outsiders who were kept in ignorance. It would have horrified the upright citizens of Upper Deal, but there were not many of those in the Lower Town. The effect on the other Revenue officers was profound and they got the clear message: do not be too active or you might share such a hideous fate.

  ‘These losses did not come about in a way to which we are accustomed. It was, in fact, stolen from under our noses when being landed.’

  There was a degree of nervousness in the way that was imparted. Even if Henry controlled the enterprise, he had learnt as much from his Uncle Dirley as he had from his father, so there was a residue of the novice he had once been in the relationship. His explanation was heard in silence, to have those fleshy jowls hit the substantial chest.

  ‘Betrayal? A dissatisfied person you have engaged, perhaps?’

  ‘Remind yourself, Uncle Dirley: I don’t engage anyone.’

  ‘Your man Hawker, then?’

  Until proved otherwise there was only one possible response. ‘I have him as loyal and I’m sure he is careful in his choosing of those beneath him.’

  A Dirley finger and thumb were rubbed together in the universal sign for money.

  ‘Greed can make traitors of us all, something I see daily in the Law Courts. If not Hawker, who? That is what you must ask yourself, Henry. But what was filched, as you have listed, does not amount to a great deal and it may just be opportunity was the cause. You have studied the accounts?’

  Henry Tulkington rubbed eyes, which had spent until well past midnight over columns of figures. Prior to that he had availed himself of the services of a particular bagnio he visited when in London, one which specialised in providing in multiples that which he craved individually nearer to home. Served and punished by a quartet of beauties, well versed in the giving of both pain and pleasure, he had been near to exhausted even before he began to study the ledgers. Not that he had failed in his diligence; the income was close to his life blood.

  ‘I hope you agree, Uncle, that with Calais paid for the cargo being landed, such a healthy positive balance requires a home?’

  ‘Of course. There’s some speculative building being proposed on the Oxford Road in the parish of St Mary-le-Bone. I would suggest we meet with the projectors and offer them assistance since they are having trouble getting funds.’

  ‘On the usual terms?’

  Dirley nodded. To an already large portfolio of rented properties would be added several more, secured as repayment for loans on generous terms. Money would make money.

  When it came to inviting Edward Brazier to Cottington Court, Betsey Langridge exhibited a degree of cunning. Discussing the matter with her aunt, she suggested it would not look proper for him to call on more than two occasions while Henry was absent. Even that was a number frowned upon; Sarah Lovell thought one visit quite sufficient, but bowed to her niece’s persistence.

  On the first visit, heavy and persistent rain constrained the notion of walking in the grounds; the suggestion from Brazier that the ladies could, like him on arrival, don oilskins was looked upon askance by the person who must act as chaperone. Thus, confined indoors, conversation was only marginally better than the parlour at Quebec House; if the drawing room was larger, Aunt Sarah was no further off.

  Subterfuge was required and Betsey manufactured it by complaining, with a pointed look at her aunt, that the hot water ordered for the making of tea was taking an interminable time to arrive, the obvious hint being that she who ran the household should go and find out why. Sarah Lovell was not going to fall for that and it required no more than a crabbed look to establish the fact, which had Betsey, in a fine display of pique, declaring huffily she would undertake the task.

  ‘I fear the weather is not about to change, Captain Brazier,’ Sarah Lovell opined, with, once Betsey was gone, a pointed look out of the window. ‘Indeed, if my impression of the swaying treetops is anything to go by it is set to worsen severely, which may make the return to Deal hazardous.’

  Brazier knew what was coming and spoke to cut off the suggestion he expected would follow, that of an early departure. ‘You must recall my profession, Mrs Lovell. At sea we would call what you see no more than a shower.’

  ‘Then I pity you when you have what we ashore see as a downpour.’

  This, delivered with pursed lips, was soon followed by a reference to what would be the muddy and possibly unsafe state of the roads, that countered too with the assurance of the surefootedness of Bonnie. Sat then in mutual silence, Brazier was relieved when Betsey returned, the gloomy black-coated servant at her back, who took a reprimand from the aunt for his tardiness with a blank expression.

  The tea, once made, flowed more freely than any subsequent conversation, which led Betsey to make the same observation about the inclement weather, as well as the fact it was not likely to moderate – quite the reverse – which somewhat threw Brazier. The manner in which this was put forward implied that she too would not be unhappy to see him gone and, much as he tried to ignore it, the truth soon became too obvious to ignore.

  ‘Your aunt has already alluded to the possible state of the roads, Mrs Langridge,’ was imparted with a stiff countenance. ‘And I daresay she cares I should not risk another fall.’

  ‘With which I can only concur, Captain.’

  ‘Then I thank you for the tea and ask that my horse be fetched from the stables.’ The speed with which both women stood confused their visitor and he failed to hide it, even more upset that Betsey made a point of looking away and ignoring his distress, to then add insult to injury by proceeding to swiftly leave the room, her parting shot providing the final insult:

  ‘I will have Grady fetch your outdoor garments.’

  These had to be put on in the presence of two apparently impatient women. It was in a long oilskin coat and wearing a foul-weather hat of the same material that Brazier nodded farewell to the aunt and took the proffered hand of Betsey, to bestow the ritual kiss. Head bowed, his hat served to hide his anger, which was abated as he felt in her hand a folded piece
of paper, this surreptitiously taken.

  The hallway was no place to read it and neither could he do so on the way back to Quebec House, it precluded by the teeming rain and his being on horseback. Thus the note stayed inside his riding glove until he made his own hall, to be eagerly studied, not that such required long. Weather permitting, Betsey Langridge would be walking in the woods the next morning on a route that would take her past the broken postern gate around eleven.

  ‘Where are your shipmates, Joe?’ he enquired after he had been helped to disrobe, the act leaving a puddle at his feet. Two of his old barge crew had arrived.

  ‘They have gone to the Ship Inn, Capt’n, to take ale and talk nonsense, as ever they do.’

  ‘Then give me back my coat and fetch your own, Joe, for we shall go to join them.’

  ‘And here’s me thinkin’ you was mad at something, the face you had on as you came through the door.’

  ‘Let us just say I am cheered now, Joe, for I have found the woman I am in pursuit of to have sharp wits.’

  It bothered Edward Brazier not one bit that the field he must cross was being ploughed, the fellow egging on the heavy shire horses well able to see him as he rode along by the outer wall of Cottington Court, Bonnie’s hooves sinking into the soft ground. If it was necessary to hide the coming assignation from Sarah Lovell – he could think of it in no other terms – he saw no need to do so from anyone else.

  South-facing, whatever paint had once coloured the door had long since peeled away, to reveal grey and dried-out oak. Reins in one hand, he pushed with the other at a surface initially quick to yield – that was, until it got stuck. To move it enough for him to squeeze through required a swift boot, which revealed the closest bush, to which he could attach Bonnie’s reins: he could not leave her free with the ploughing horses nearby.

  Equines by nature were curious creatures who sought company and were competitive as well. She would be bound to go to them, quite possibly with head thrown back and high-stepping hooves, added to a stiff, flaring tail, this to show her sex and superiority. A carrot was produced to mollify her and make up for the lack of grass.

  Once through the gap Brazier then had to push his way through the bushes until, clear of them, he could look at his watch, to realise he was a mite early. About to step back into semi-concealment he heard the sound of a bark and, seconds later, the tail-wagging spaniels were racing towards him, Betsey some way behind.

  Oddly he felt awkward and wondered if she did too, for this would mark the first occasion in which they would be alone and not under scrutiny. Even if he thought the notion ridiculous he could not shake it, which had him stand still to let her approach, producing a rather fixed smile as he lifted his hat. Betsey stopped several feet away and looked at him in an odd fashion, as if he was a stranger, until she showed her feelings of apprehension by biting her lower lip.

  ‘Can I console you by saying I too am at a loss as to how to proceed?’

  ‘I have no preparation for such an association. I assume you to be less a stranger to it than I.’

  Edward Brazier was not one to blush, and anyway, his complexion would not have let it show. But he did feel acute discomfort, for Betsey Langridge would not be the first woman in his life. With his looks, manner and being young, eager and navy, he had been an object of attraction to others, like an occasional married woman seeking pleasure without commitment. He had also frequently dallied with the native women, especially in the possessions of the East India Company.

  He had, too, in the past and ashore in England, been a visitor to the better class of bagnio, where the females present went beyond merely singing, dancing and the kind of flattery designed to loosen a customer’s purse. He well knew that, in terms of experience, Betsey had only her late husband. Her kind of upbringing, quite apart from her sweet nature, forbade anything else.

  ‘Can I take that as an invitation to advance matters?’

  ‘I came out for a walk, Captain Brazier. Would it not be best I continue?’

  ‘In my company?’

  Betsey nodded and he went to join her, she turning away but then making no effort to create a distance between them of the kind that had been a feature of their previous stroll. He was acutely aware of their near-touching elbows and assumed Betsey was too, while proximity allowed the odour of her perfume to fill his nostrils. He realised it also carried the smell of her person, which he found exhilarating.

  ‘I take it we are free from observation?’ he murmured.

  ‘But not constraint,’ was the slightly nervous response.

  Brazier threw back his head and laughed, she stopping and appearing perplexed, the look on her face then turning to enquiry. ‘I have not felt like this since I was sporting spots and lost in the reverie of first love, which of course was foolish and came to nothing.’

  ‘It is awkward.’

  ‘Only if we choose to make it so.’

  ‘I am at a loss to know how to make it otherwise.’

  ‘Take my hand, Betsey.’

  His he held out, but it was a seeming age before hers left her side and the tremble was obvious, matched by the look of unease on her face. Taking it, he bent to bestow a kiss, no polite peck this time, but one where his lips remained on her yielding flesh for several seconds.

  ‘Do you feel anything?’ he asked as he looked up, to see a deeper blush than ever he had witnessed before. Still holding the hand, he raised it to his lips and kissed it again, this time on the fingertips, his eyes steady and holding hers.

  ‘Let us walk, hold hands, talk – and it matters not what of.’

  Which they did, even reprising conversations and memories from Jamaica: the people they had met, their qualities or lack of same, the latter deplored in the case of Prince William as well as certain other folk who had demonstrated a lack of discretion or proper manners. This was not confined to Brazier’s sex, for the West Indies had as many a female battleaxe as any colonial station.

  It was cheering to feel Betsey relax, not least in the stiffness of her arm, which told him she was becoming accustomed to and comfortable with the physical contact. His own stiffened when she mentioned her brother, only to ease again as she reprised the conversation they had engaged in before he went away, the details of which surprised him and which he struggled to fully believe.

  ‘He will come round in time. I fear he is a creature who abhors change.’

  ‘Would it hurt you if it transpired we could not ever be friends?’

  ‘Yes it would.’

  ‘Enough to …?’

  It was unnecessary to complete that, important as it was: called upon to choose, Brazier needed to know how she would react.

  ‘I cannot bring myself to think so.’

  It took little effort to tug on her hand and halt their progress, which left them staring into each other’s eyes, he towering over her and so close. They had come full circle and the gate was just beyond the bushes, while it was obvious this meeting could not last forever. She needed to go back to the house and he must depart.

  ‘When I was in pain you were kind enough to bestow on me a kiss.’

  Another blush. ‘I recall with my fingers.’

  ‘I would ask for that at least now, but would hope for more.’ His head moved forward a fraction, only to wait for a response. It was time for him to be as bold as he could be at sea. ‘Betsey Langridge, I think I love you and, if you are unsure, I can understand why.’

  It was no more than a swift bestowal, but her lips brushed his before she turned away as if ashamed.

  ‘I will come tomorrow.’

  Facing him again, a hand was lifted to brush his cheek. ‘I pray for it.’

  ‘Edward?’

  ‘Edward.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Dutchy Holland came into Upper Deal on the back of a chalk cart, these being frequent in the east of the county, the product dug out of the ground to be spread over fields requiring their year of lying fallow. The man on the reins was
a talkative soul, so Dutchy knew quite bit regarding his destination before he alighted to walk the last part of his journey on foot.

  As ever, Deal was named as the most villainous and dangerous place in the land, a story he had heard in every habitation through which he had passed, never once being drawn into saying the speaker did not know Falmouth around the harbour. It was common of folk to be sure they were exposed to more crime and wickedness in their own backyard than any other.

  Nothing he saw when he came into the Lower Town was enough to excite excessive curiosity, and he had no trouble when asking a crossing sweeper in the busy main road by the large church for Quebec House. They, who cleared up the equine ordure so folks could keep their boots and dress hems clean, were a fount of local knowledge, brought on by their engagement with all and sundry, high and low, who had to stop and wait till a gap appeared in the number of produce-carrying conveyances, which Dutchy was doing now.

  A snivelling nose was rubbed with an already crusted sleeve. ‘You’ll be a looking for Captain Brazier, then?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘A kindly gent, all say.’

  Dutchy grinned and agreed, for he knew what the sweeper was hinting. His old captain never crossed without he tipped a bit of copper to what he reckoned an unfortunate; he had to be that or he would not be doing the job.

  ‘Don’t get across his hawse, mate,’ Dutchy replied with a smile, his slow West Country drawl taking any rebuke out of the remark. ‘He’s tartar when his bloods all a’ boil.’

  The commotion distracted them both as a big fellow came out of a doorway right behind Dutchy, hauling by the collar a young fellow with tousled blonde hair who was pleading to be let go and, by the sound of his slurring speech, somewhat the worse for drink.