‘Do you know of St Merrynporth?’
‘No, me duck. You mean St Merryn?
‘There’s no port there, is there?’
‘Eh?’
He was about to repeat the question, but she turned and fought her way back to work. At the next table, the game of dominoes had boiled over into an argument.
‘I’ll ask around the tables,’ James said.
‘What?’ Fecker put his hand to his ear.
‘I said, I’ll go around…’
A man slammed into Fecker’s shoulder, knocking his tankard and sloshing beer into his face, before rolling off him and landing on his back on the table. James’ drink was sent flying, and he leapt away. The younger fisherman was on his feet, bearing down on the older whose face was as white as his beard, and the attack was accompanied by a barrage of swearing and a look of hate from the youth. Before James could remonstrate, the attacker pulled the old man towards him and was aiming his fist directly at his terrified face.
‘You cheating dobek, you bain’t even a jacker!’ the youth roared and threw his punch.
Fecker caught the incoming fist in the palm of his hand, saving the old man a broken nose. The youth screamed as his fingers were crushed and his arm twisted, and James was on his feet in a second, ready to defend himself. They were strangers, they’d been in the bar less than ten minutes and wouldn’t stand a chance if this turned ugly.
‘Ye be the cheater you knack-kneed lather.’ Seeing his chance to escape, the old man struggled from the table, but the youth was not letting him off lightly. He kicked, sending his victim staggering towards James, who caught him just in time to prevent him falling face-first into a table littered with glasses.
‘Get your filth away a me.’
The attacker turned his rage on Fecker, lifting his leg to kick him in the groin, but Fecker twisted his arm harder, spun the lout around and pushed him away.
The bar had fallen silent, and all eyes were on the fight. James righted the white-haired gentleman and helped him sit, hoping that would take some of the heat from the situation, but he was no longer the problem. The problem now was Fecker.
‘What be he, some Polish emmet?’
‘Be like a girl with them locks.’
Other insults were thrown, but the Ukrainian was impervious. His attention was once again on the youth who, having been freed, turned with newfound determination and raised both fists, ready to punch.
‘Ah, get ye ’ome a your wet nurse,’ the old man spat at his assailant. ‘Waste a space if you can’t even fight a yarnigoat.’
That brought some laughs from the men nearby, but it drew the youth’s attention from Fecker and back to his original victim. Before James could step between them, he had grabbed the man by his collar and was about to drag him from the chair when he gasped. The insults faded as he rose into the air as if lifted on invisible wires. He let go of the old man, his legs kicked, and he cried out in panic.
‘Door!’ Fecker barked as he carried the youth towards the exit at arm’s length.
Stunned, the fishermen stood back to give him a path, and one opened the door, letting in a rush of cold air. The smoke swirled around the struggling attacker, now turned victim, and his friends ignored his cries for help. Worried that the crowd would now turn on him, James hurried after them, but found he was the last in the queue as the fishermen followed Fecker from the inn and onto the quayside. By the time James pushed his way through, Fecker was holding the lout over the sea wall.
‘He swims?’ he shouted, and someone yelled back that the lad could.
Shrugging, Fecker released his victim, and the unfortunate youth vanished into the harbour. Turning back to the crowd, now open-mouthed in either horror or admiration, he said, ‘He spill my beer,’ and walked back into the inn through stunned silence. He was still holding his tankard.
‘Good job the tide be in,’ someone said. ‘Be a ten-foot drop a the mud elsewise.’
‘Had that coming a while,’ said another. ‘Still, better get him ’ome.’
Having checked that the unfortunate youth was being helped from the water, James was convinced he would be lynched on his return to the table, but he entered a bar that hummed with quieter conversation, the punters chatting as if nothing had happened. Two fresh tankards had appeared on their table along with a bottle of rum and the white-haired man. Fecker was sipping as he had done before, and the barmaid was wiping away the last of the spilt beer.
‘Them be from Branok,’ she said, nodding at the tankards and thumbing towards the old man. ‘The rum be from the bar as we be grateful you got that stink out a here without breaking the windows. You’ll have no more trouble from these men.’
‘Thanking you for your assistance, Mis’r…?’
‘Wright,’ James said, taking his seat dubiously, one eye on Fecker who was contentedly sipping his fresh ale and leering at the barmaid.
‘And ye, Sir? What be your name so I can thank ye?’
‘Andrej Borysko Yakiv Kolisnychenko,’ Fecker replied.
Mr Branok’s grey eyebrows raised in momentary confusion but quickly settled. ‘Then thank ye, Mis’r Kolisnychenko,’ he said and raised his glass. ‘Sorry ’bout the quarrel, and I be thankin’ ye fur your assistance.’
It was the first time James had heard anyone other than Fecker or Archer pronounce the Ukrainian surname with ease, and he was more impressed than surprised.
‘What ye be doing ’ere,’ Mr Branok asked. ‘You emmets?’
‘Are we what?’
‘Emmets, Mis’r Wright. Visitors. Only I not seen ye in Padstow afore and I been ’ere longer than me teeth.’
‘We’re looking for someone,’ James said. ‘A man by the name of O’Sullivan who may have a son called Jerry. Do you know of him?’
‘I can tell ye plain there be no-one of that name in Padstow,’ the man replied.
James had no reason to doubt him, and his heart sank. Now that the fuss had died down and he could observe the man more closely, he put his age at sixty at least, and judging by his calloused fingers and weather-worn face, guessed that he was a fisherman.
‘I be that now, Mr Branok said when James asked. ‘But only these past twenty year.’
‘But you’ve lived here all your life you say?’
‘Aye.’
‘Then can I ask you, Sir, do you know if St Merrynporth is nearby?’
‘Not right now, I don’t, lad,’ Branok said. ‘But wait a day or so and I will.’
Fecker and James exchanged confused glances.
‘I don’t understand.’ James put down his tankard. Branok hadn’t said no, and that gave him hope that he might be getting somewhere. ‘A day or so?’
‘Aye.’ Branok took a leisurely drink of rum and wiped his mouth. ‘I first went a sea on me fader’s skiff,’ he said as he folded his arms. ‘Only a small thing she were. Used to fish off the shore, close in mind. Fader taught me, and later I started on the gigs, they be larger boats, but it weren’t the life fur me. Not then and not that I were soft nor anything, just weren’t exciting enough. Often said that, and that’s another reason them tegs like the one you dunked, Mis’r Kolisnychenko, don’t take a me.’
He fumbled in his pocket for his pipe, and James waited while he stuffed leaf into it, happy to let the man take his time. The beer was warming, his pulse had returned to its usual pace, and his eyes were stinging with tiredness after the ride. The wind had risen, and through the leaded glass of the small windows, the pub sign was swinging. The only thing marring the pleasure of good ale and a warm hearth was the thought that Jerry might be lost in the worsening weather.
The pipe alight and fuming, Branok continued his story.
‘I found another life but still on the sea,’ he said. ‘Once you agree to be ’er slave, see,
she don’t let you go. Salt in your blood, the mysteries in your bones and the fear always in your ’eart. You can’t turn your back on ’er, not once she’s your mistress. All the same, the skiffing weren’t fur me, and the gig boats only took family crews. Me fader had only his skiff, so there were no work fur me. This were back in forty-seven when Elizabeth came in, see? I found me place with ’er, and I learnt me trade.’
He offered the pipe to Fecker who, to James’ surprise, accepted and took two long draws before handing it back. When it was offered to James, he declined and was about to ask who Elizabeth was, when Branok continued.
‘Moved on, later, a Jessie Munn and spent five year content with ’er afore they sent me a Tayleur.’
Fecker’s smoke rolled across the table, and looking up, James could tell he was just as confused. Branok gazed to the window, lost in his memories.
‘Sad it were, Tayleur. Never took us where she were going, and on our first time too. We was brought back by Defence, and I were ’ome a while, but I missed me life, as you do when you abandon your mistress.’
James was starting to think that they had befriended an alcohol-coddled soak, when things fell into place.
‘I always reckon it was cos a that time away from me mistress that I got the bad luck.’ Branok sucked on his pipe, his mouth turning down at the corners. ‘First they didn’t want me for Emma, then the work with Annie Wilson didn’t pay off, so I ended up wrecked with the Blue Jacket. Shame that were. Was a good post, and I saw much a the world.’ Pointing his pipe at Fecker, he added, ‘That’s how come I get your name, Sir. I saw your surprise.’
‘One moment, James interrupted. ‘Were these all ships?’
‘Did I not say that, nipper? Me sorries a you. Aye. Merchant ships. I made me way up a purser in the end, but there always be a final straw, and it were Golden Sunset. Ha!’ He spat. ‘Nothing golden ’bout being wrecked fur the first time, let alone me fifth. Jonah, I must ’ave been. That were the sunset of me days on steamers, and so I came back ’ome and picked up from me fader, long in his suicide’s grave be then.’
That appeared to be the end of Branok’s reminiscences, but James waited a polite amount of time in case the old man remembered to explain his initial mysterious remark.
‘And you said that you know of a place called St Merrynporth?’ James prompted when it was clear he hadn’t.
‘Aye. I still follows the fleet, you see.’
‘Fleet?’
‘White Star Line, nipper. Best liners a be working on. Well, them as didn’t sink, blow boilers or vanish. It were early day of steamers, see. Exciting, but you weren’t always guaranteed a make it ’ome.’
‘And when you were working aboard their ships you went to St Merrynporth?’
‘It ain’t a place,’ Branok said, emptying his pipe onto the floor. ‘It be a boat.’
‘A boat?’
Fecker had been examining his fingernails, but his head shot up, and James caught his eye.
‘In harbour now?’ the Ukrainian asked.
‘Not as yet.’ Branok refilled his pipe. ‘She be the tender as meets the liners coming in from America. Them toffs as don’t want a travel on a Westerpool afore coming down west can change onto ’er in the Irish Sea, see? She went out yesterday af’noon, due back a’morrow, less storm blows up bad. What do you want with that old tub anyhow?’
James didn’t answer, his mind was pumping like a steamer’s pistons.
‘What liner does she serve?’ he asked, suspecting he knew the answer.
‘The Britannic. Fine ship that one. Fifteen year old, had a few bumps, but when you be five-thousand tonnes and…’
‘Sorry,’ James butted in. ‘I need to be clear. The St Merrynporth is collecting passengers from the Britannic and bringing them here?’
‘No, nipper, she don’t come in a Padstow. Needs deeper water, see? She’ll be docking miles west at Newquay. Least, she will if this storm blows in and out afore then.’
Eighteen
That Wednesday night, having delivered a message to the stables on behalf of His Lordship, Saddle was the last servant to retire. He shared the locking-up and closing-down duties with Mr Payne, but due to the butler’s recent accident, volunteered to take on the duty even though it was not his turn. Mr Payne was thankful and returned to his rooms as soon as Lord Clearwater was settled into his suite.
With the smoking room cleared, Saddle roamed the ground floor ensuring the windows and internal shutters were closed, and the gas was turned off before taking the backstairs to the gentlemen’s corridor. There, he knocked lightly on the door to the Bosworth bedroom and when called, entered.
Mr Smith was at the window gazing into the night with the light turned low and the fire dying.
‘Your carriage has been ordered for the morning, Sir,’ Saddle said. ‘Mr Williams will drive you to Lostwithiel for your onward connection to Newquay.’
Smith turned to face him. He had prepared himself for bed with no assistance and crossed the room without the use of the cane, a slight limp now the only signs that he had suffered any injury.
‘Thank you, Robert.’
‘Will there be anything else, Sir?’ the under-butler enquired. Scanning the room, he saw nothing that needed his attention.
‘Only your assurance that you will carry out my orders.’
Saddle took a deep breath and closed the door silently. ‘If I may, Sir,’ he said, tension rising in his stomach. ‘You have asked me to do something with which I am not comfortable, but I have agreed because you gave your word to offer a, er…’ The man’s intense glare was terrifying. ‘A reward.’
‘And you now want an assurance that I will make good my word.’
‘If I may make such a request without showing distrust, yes.’
‘I don’t see how I can prove to you that the money will come your way,’ Smith said, opening the wardrobe. ‘And I don’t see how you can trust me, a stranger who has asked a great deal from you. But bear this in mind. I am trusting you as much as you must trust me, but you are correct, and I promised you a sign of my good faith.’ Smith’s long-fingered hand reached into the wardrobe to remove his battered jacket. ‘Remember that the only person who will suffer from what you are to do is your superior, Mr Payne, you said so yourself. You also said that he had treated you poorly, sending you back to live on the top floor in one room where before you had the suite, and the one by the plate safe at that. Having managed the Hall, you were degraded from a position of responsibility and good accommodation to a position little higher than that of a footman. There is your motivation, and that was one of the reasons you so readily agreed. The other, I know, is the large debt you owe to men who have threatened to expose and injure you within the next week, should you not make good on your debts. You have been honest with me, and in return, I have given you the chance to settle all your matters, and should you wish, begin a new life elsewhere.’
‘Yes, you have promised much generosity, Sir,’ Saddle said. His nervousness was gnawing, but he stood his ground. If he was caught carrying out this man’s demands, he would lose his job; if he failed, he would suffer far more than a beating by a couple of unruly fishermen.
‘Allow me to demonstrate my resolve to keep my word,’ Smith said, drawing an envelope from the secret pocket. ‘I apologise for the condition of this, but I was not expecting to be turned upside down at great speed. I was on my way to visit a great friend at Prideaux Place when my plans were, quite literally, derailed. The purpose of my visit was to deliver this on behalf of another friend who lives in Ireland. I am so well recovered now, thanks to you, that I will continue my journey in the morning. However, after being so well attended by yourself, I changed the name on the envelope and have addressed it to you, because I can think of no-one better to fill the post it offers.’ Bushy, raised
eyebrows approached Saddle, fixing him to the carpet and seemingly sucking the breath from his chest. ‘This is my sign of good faith, for our contract requires trust between strangers, and this will seal it. It is an invitation from the Duke of Wexford, a personal friend and a far more generous employer than Clearwater. Should you wish, you may leave Larkspur on Saturday morning, travel to Wexford, and in reply to this invitation, take up employment as His Grace’s butler as soon as you arrive. You will see the salary is double what you currently earn. Money to travel to Ireland is included. This is the best I can do.’
Saddle took the unsealed envelope, and having read its contents, swallowed hard. His nervousness vanished and was replaced by pride that Mr Smith should think so highly of him. There was a fair amount of greed coursing through his veins too, but he pretended it was excitement at the offer which had been made on the Duke’s embossed, personal notepaper.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ he said, folding the letter away.
‘Say nothing, but repeat your oath that you will do exactly as I have asked. I may then retire to bed, satisfied that my best man is ready to carry out my wishes. When I hear of your success, which I will undoubtedly do through various publications, and when His Grace tells me you are safe with him in Ireland, I will send the promised money. This is the hour, Robert. Do you swear your loyalty?’
Believing Smith to be a man of honour, and hungry for the position and financial reward a few duplicitous acts would bring him, and innocently believing that no-one would be harmed by what Mr Smith had described as a prank, Saddle once again agreed to carry out his wishes.
‘I do, Sir,’ he said with a solemn bow.
The deal was done, and being a man of his word, Saddle had no intention of going back on it. After all, he thought, it was only a jape. No-one was going to die.
He was, of course, quite wrong.
Nineteen
Bitter Bloodline Page 21