The Devil's Mask

by Christopher Wakling

  Why hadn’t Blue remonstrated with the Justice? He’d said nothing to defend himself. Where had he been when we split up to locate the Doctor? Did I imagine the disturbance upstairs on our joint arrival? Had he planted the seed of it as we stood on the stoop? Why hadn’t he told me of the Belsize’s dirty slaving secret upon our discovering Addison? If there’d been a crime against his kind did it not make sense, as Justice Pearce had unknowingly suggested, that Blue himself may have sought to right the wrong he’d unwittingly helped perpetrate?

  No, no, no. I would not fall prey to the inevitable prejudice against the man. We’d spilt blood together. I’m a good enough judge of character, and the sailor was no murderer. His composure, the very set of his spine, told me enough to know that …

  I was staring blindly at the coal-smoke darkness again, and my eyes were stinging. There was a clue in all this blackness. The illegal transportation of Negroes, the polished onyx of Blue’s knuckles, and … and … the blackamoor-woman’s corpse, the purported suicide discovered by young Kitty and her enterprising brother. But there was something else as well. I reached for it tentatively, a tongue probing the memory of a toothache, and found it, a gap between rotten molars. The first corpse, the one discovered by the workman, Ivan Brook. Charred, the report in Felix Farley had read. It was alleged he’d burnt his victim beyond identification. A burned corpse: black.

  Dawn does not break. Like scum pushed into the river’s gullet by the incoming tide, oily with advancing wavelets, it creeps up gradually. My panic was likewise incremental; by the time my hand cast a shadow on the wall I was sick with it, fearful for my very life. In this day and age, no matter what stock you come from, custody is a limbo from which prisoners are wont to … disappear.

  Even so, the first thing I felt, later that morning, on hearing my father’s voice echoing in the hallway, could best be described as amazed anxiety rather than relief. What was he doing here? I hauled myself from the floor, shook the woodenness from my limbs, dusted myself down. I couldn’t hear exactly what he was saying, but there was no hint of anger in his tone. If anything, it sounded like levity. After a pause, the lock’s innards rolled over themselves again and Justice Pearce stood in the doorway. He beamed at me. What was left of his hair he had greased with pomade this morning, and he smelled of bacon.

  ‘Well, Mr Bright, I can’t say I was expecting cavalry of this sort to ride to your rescue, you admitting to lawyering pretensions and so on, but there we have it. Argumentation I could have withstood, but Papa has come with the best sort of help. Altogether more persuasive! He’s put up the surety we require to let you go free for the time being. Lucky you, your father is a generous man.’

  He led me through to the front of the house. The place appeared much less austere, comfortable almost, in reverse. Potted geraniums stood on a windowsill in the hallway, and I saw a pair of curtains held back with ribbons. An image of Lilly’s hair, burnished with sunlight, flashed before me, immediately followed by the thought of Mary’s naked waist solid between my hands, and the resulting shudder of guilt rendered me still less prepared to stand before my father.

  But there he was, leaning on his stick, his back to the doorway he must have known I would come through. He turned upon hearing us, finished picking at a tooth with his free hand, inspected whatever it was he had freed from it, then wiped his fingers upon his breeches and summoned a smile.

  ‘What’s wrong with drunk and disorderly, Inigo? A bit of boisterousness. Some breaching of the peace. I’d prepared myself long ago to retrieve one of you – though if forced to guess, I’d have plumped for John – from a night in the cells!’

  ‘Is Sebastian with you?’

  ‘But this, this, is altogether less seemly. I don’t doubt but there’s a perfectly sensible explanation for your involvement.’ Here he shot Pearce a look from eyes sunk deep beneath the rock-face of his brow. ‘And yet it still won’t do. You shouldn’t have allowed yourself to become mixed up in business of this nature at all. As I was explaining to the Justice here, one would have expected a member of your profession to be altogether more … circumspect.’

  He marvelled at me. His journey had raised the weather in his cheeks. It was as if he had returned from a day’s hunting to find me – still a boy – caught by in the act of stealing a rock-cake.

  ‘Sebastian was indisposed. Fortunately for you, he passed on your … request for help.’

  ‘I did not want to trouble you.’

  ‘No, no. I don’t doubt it.’

  ‘But my friend.’ (The word had a juvenile overtone – yet neither accomplice nor colleague would do instead.) ‘Joseph Blue. Also wrongly – mistakenly accused. Justice Pearce has explained our mutual involvement, yes? You’ve persuaded him to release Mr Blue, too?’

  My father picked his teeth again while Pearce tugged at his lapels, puffed up with more punchable self-satisfaction.

  ‘Give a starving man a loaf and you expect a “thank you,” Inigo. Not: “I want two.”’

  ‘The fact is, Mr Bright,’ Pearce told me pleasantly, ‘I’ve already got shot of the Negro. He’s on his way back to Bristol, headed for the embrace of your own Justice Wheeler. Our murder here has convinced him to take a closer look at Mr Blue’s last encounter with his dead Captain. Anderson, was it?’ Here, he tapped his nose. ‘My counsel would be to put a bit of clear water between yourself and that black. I don’t know where you found him, but he’s in a world of trouble now and’, he glanced at my father, ‘I’d hate his guilt to rub off on you, by association.’

  ‘Is this some form of joke?’ I began, and the heat rising in my chest broke from me in a snort of laughter. But as I opened my mouth to continue, my father cut me off in the voice he uses for commanding the dogs. ‘Enough!’ Instantly, he snapped back into feigned good humour. ‘Let us be on our way before the good Justice here suffers a change of heart.’

  The two of them exchanged a nodding smile. They even had the same metal-heeled walk: a gunshot tattoo accompanied our progress across the flagstone hall.

  Fifty-six

  My father had brought his own carriage. It stood spattered to the door handles with grey mud. Never mind the horses, Webb, at the reins, looked exhausted; they’d obviously set off early and ridden hard. Even so, the coachman managed to wink at me as I climbed into my seat. I’d overdone a night out, he seemed to think, warranting a sort of patronising respect rather than admonishment.

  We wound out of Bath’s prissy heart and picked up the Bristol road. To begin with, I was too angry to speak. But I was also exhausted, and the rutted road shook the heat from me by increments, leaving me hollowed out. It had been raining overnight. The ploughed landscape we rattled through was cut with black waves. They smelled of wet canvas and rotting timbers … and … it was everywhere, the damned ship, even the inevitable screech of gulls slashing low over the furrows reminded me of the horrible thing.

  ‘You know what the Belsize was trading, don’t you?’

  My father had been feigning sleep. Now he opened his eyes. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You know what your ship carried to the Indies?’

  ‘My ship?’

  ‘The Belsize.’

  ‘We haven’t owned ships for ten years, Inigo. You know that. We take a stake in voyages, we invest.’

  ‘It amounts to the same thing. You knew what you were taking a stake in.’

  ‘The same thing? There’s a world of difference between owning your own fleet and backing individual ships. Responsibility, for one. And authority over proceedings. Manning the ship, etcetera.’

  ‘The ship carried slaves.’

  ‘And then there’s the share on return an investor can expect. Less risk than an owner, but less profit, as you understand.’

  ‘Somebody is killing people to keep the secret. Those who knew. The ship’s surgeon. Its captain.’

  My father blinked at me incredulously. ‘Killing people? Because of a … trade infringement? That sounds far-fetched.’


  ‘But that’s what this is about. Murder. You saved me from being accused of it outright myself, though it seems the sailor Blue now stands charged alone in my stead.’

  ‘Slaves, you say? On the Belsize?’ Again he shook his head.

  ‘You expect me to believe you didn’t know?’

  ‘Indeed I did not know! If I’d suspected such a plan was afoot I’d have objected to it on any number of grounds. You’ll recall our firm was one of the first out of the trade. It’s no longer profitable. Liverpool has had the edge on us in that respect for donkey’s years.’

  ‘And yet you invested in it.’

  ‘Inigo. I can’t blame you. The nature of our business is still clearly … opaque to you. So let me spell it out. My share in the Western Trading Company venture is slim. It is but one of Bright & Co.’s concerns. And we’re only involved as a means of minimising our exposure to risk. The WTC takes stakes in trading vessels. It had but a proportionate say in the running of that ship. If what you are saying is true – and let’s for a moment assume that it is – then the brute fact that I was unaware of it remains unaltered. I’m as astonished – as exercised indeed – as the next man to hear of this.’

  More furrows jolted past, compressed beneath empty sky.

  ‘Mr Carthy has gone,’ I stated.

  ‘Gone where?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure he’ll pitch up again soon enough.’ My father ran his thumbnail between his two front teeth.

  ‘He has been abducted. There was a note.’

  He picked at his teeth again and narrowed his eyes in puzzlement. ‘A note from whom?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You’re sure it isn’t some sort of a hoax? You know how fond that man is of a practical joke.’

  I watched him carefully and did not reply.

  ‘It’s his method, isn’t it? To launch you into deep water and watch your progress from the safety of the shore.’

  Again I said nothing, but my silence spoke loudly enough.

  ‘Abducted, you say. Goodness.’

  The coach hit a vicious rut and we were both jerked from our seats. My father hit his elbow upon the woodwork. He rubbed at the hurt after we had gathered ourselves up and something about the gesture made him look frail and fallible all of a sudden. He had been up all night. He had journeyed to Bath and done whatever it took to ensure my freedom. I had not offered him a word of thanks.

  The irrationality of my indisposition towards him struck me full in the face then. What had he ever done to deserve it? Despite the difficulty of losing my mother, he had raised me, creating a new family for us both, and allowing me alone to do as I please. John and Sebastian were circumscribed by their duty to the business, yet when I’d objected to becoming involved, Father had paid Carthy to take me on. When I’d announced my marriage plans, he’d offered to help with the wedding. I was still welcome at his table, in line to inherit a share of his wealth, and as soon as he’d heard I was in trouble, he’d dropped everything to rescue me. I’d cooked up my consternation at his involvement with the Western Trading Company out of what? Figures on a balance sheet. Yet he’d been the investor conscientious enough to rectify shortfalls in the Company’s payments of duties. Even if he had known of the slaving, it meant little: there had been nothing illegal about it until recently; he had been raised on the trade; I could hardly blame him for failing to blanch at the news that he had been an unwitting partner in so novel a crime. And, in any event, I had seen nothing – either on the file or in his face – to suggest that he did know anything was afoot with the Belsize.

  In fact, Blue aside, the only person who expressed concerns about the ship was Carthy, and he’d been altogether unforthcoming about what exactly his concerns were. Somebody had got wind of our work for the Dock Company, and that somebody evidently objected to our involvement, but beyond that I knew nothing of the details. Like the screech and grind of the carriage – its axles were in need of grease – it was all just so much noise.

  ‘Might Mr Carthy’s absence have to do with the recent news story? Bullivant’s complaint and so forth.’

  I shook my head, and yet … could I be sure? The handwriting on the notes had appeared similar, but … the carriage bucked and slewed again, jostling the two of us together, and beyond the certainty of that collision, shoulder to shoulder with my father, at once bruising and reassuringly solid, I knew nothing in that instant, nothing.

  I swallowed. My Adam’s apple worked thick in my throat. I turned away.

  ‘Son,’ said my father. Perhaps the physical contact broke down a barrier within him, too; I’m not sure. But as I watched the hedgerow jag past I felt his hand upon my shoulder again. It slid round to squeeze the back of my neck, and he bent his face towards the side of my head so that I could feel his breath, warm upon my cheek.

  ‘You need a haircut.’

  Fifty-seven

  The temperature dropped that afternoon and the wind rose. A biting cold skewered us within the carriage. By the time we made it back to Bristol, it was needling my joints. The exposed skin on my cheeks, forehead and the backs of my hands felt taut and raw.

  Without asking my opinion on the matter, my father had us driven straight to Bright House, where the fire in his study was already lit. We’d exchanged no further words for the remainder of the journey. A familiar curtain of reticence had descended to hold us apart, yet anticipation coloured it: I knew he had something else to say.

  He stood to one side of the fireplace, and I stood at the other, leaning on the marble surround, warm beneath my palm. Father sent for a bottle of rum and two glasses and, again without asking, he poured a generous measure for us both.

  ‘Only so much warmth to be had from without,’ he said, handing me a glass.

  I took a sip. The rum bloomed abrasively in my chest.

  Father followed suit, then lifted his glass. ‘Success,’ he said.

  This seeming an absurd toast in the context, I merely nodded.

  ‘I have admired your tenacity a long while, Inigo. I like the fact you decided not to take my advice over the Dock Company issue, your resolve in choosing to pursue your case come what may.’

  I sensed a ‘but’ coming, and held my tongue, and here it came.

  ‘But … the ins and outs of that particular matter aside … I worry that you are pitting your talents in the wrong direction.’ He winced back another sip of rum. ‘There are two sorts of folk in this world, according to my experience. Those in control, and those held down. Success is as much about choosing the right game to play as it is about winning it.’

  There was something unsettling about listening to this wisdom, not because I disagreed, but because of the oddly solicitous tone with which Father was delivering it. The speech felt premeditated, and the idea of him thinking in advance what to say to convince me – of what, exactly, I didn’t yet know – was as cloying as it was touching. I would have felt more comfortable faced with told-you-so scorn: practice had taught me how to push back against that.

  ‘In this city, now as before, the game to be in is trade. Lawyering is worthy, as is doctoring, or any other of the professions. But the whip hand, here in Bristol, goes to business.’

  I watched his face, glowing now, balloon and shrink in the bottom of his glass as he raised and lowered it again.

  ‘Neither Sebastian nor John have your strengths. I haven’t always seen it that way, I know, but I do now. The pressure of this difficult patch has made things clear. The upset has made John …’ he picked his words out of his raised glass … ‘overly reliant on this stuff. And Sebastian’s … sensitivities seem to have got the better of him again. You, by contrast, have held firm in your own adversity. As a result I’m asking you to reconsider your position. Come back to work for our common good. Bright & Co. needs you.’

  Warmth spread through my chest, and it wasn’t the drink; I could not stem a sense of satisfaction at having risen above John in Father’s
estimation. But the feeling didn’t last long. Something was not right, not right at all. Given that he’d just had to rescue me from bungling powerlessness, referring now, of all times, to previously unseen ‘strengths’ made little sense. Added to which, there was a beseeching quality to this overture. My father was looking at me now with filmy eyes. That could indeed have been a result of the rum, but I suspected it had to do with something else. He smiled and dipped his brow, nodding. Waiting for my answer. Hanging upon it.

  ‘Why would you not use your influence to ensure the release of Blue?’

  Father stopped nodding. His face was blank.

  ‘Joseph Blue. The sailor I stood falsely accused alongside.’

  ‘The Negro?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was bafflement in his eyes. ‘I know nothing about the man. How could I possibly vouch for him?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Yes, but. Have you not heard my offer?’

  ‘I vouched for him.’

  ‘Inigo,’ my father said, and in that one word, my name, said in that flat tone, was a lifetime’s dominance. I’m in charge until my last breath, he might as well have said.

  ‘I’m grateful to you, Father, both for what you’ve done this morning and for this … compliment. But I have a new career. My duty is to Adam Carthy and this case. I must return to Thunderbolt Street to see whether he has been released. And then I need to take steps myself to prove the sailor’s innocence.’

  Very carefully, my father placed his unfinished glass of rum on the leather top of his desk. He screwed it one way and then the other. ‘I had not realised the extent of your faith in this man, Blue,’ he said. ‘What do you know about him?’

  ‘He did not kill the Belsize’s captain, or Doctor Waring.’

  ‘So you say. But beyond that?’

  I put my glass down next to my father’s.

  ‘You forget’, he said quietly, ‘that I have experience of dealing with blacks. You cannot trust them, much less know their true intentions.’