Devil's Prize

by Jane Jackson

  But even had they been Porthinnis men, he would not have attempted escape. Not when his life and the lives of his crew depended on him reaching Trescowe and convincing the justice to see him.

  What if Casvellan refused? His warning had been clear: no assistance. But surely he would want the information contained in the letter? That was the hope Devlin clung to during the ride from Porthleven.

  At first the supervisor had refused to let him go, agreeing only after Devlin shrugged and announced with a certainty he did not feel, that when the justice heard of it, both the Customs officer and the cutter’s captain would lose their jobs.

  Disclaiming all responsibility, the captain stormed out and returned to his ship. Careful to do everything by the book, the supervisor sent a message to the Riding Officer ordering him to call in six dragoons who had neither family nor friends in Porthinnis. When they arrived he appointed two to accompany Devlin.

  Meanwhile, locked in a whitewashed room containing nothing but a wooden bench and a bucket while the remaining four dragoons stood guard outside the Custom House, the crew could only wait.

  Stiff and sore, both from his beating and the long ride, Devlin obeyed the order to dismount. While one dragoon hammered on the front door, the other drew his pistol and aimed it at Devlin, who stood perfectly still, hands raised, facing the soldier. The click of the hammer being cocked was loud in the silence.

  In that instant Devlin realised that the dragoons had spent the entire journey expecting him to try and escape. That he hadn’t increased rather than removed their anxiety. He sensed their unease. Any sudden movement would get him shot.

  What if Casvellan was not at home? Sweat prickled his back.

  The door swung open and the butler’s gaze swung from the two dragoons to Devlin.

  ‘You know this man?’ The dragoon on the doorstep demanded.

  Fearing the butler’s denial, Devlin spoke up. ‘Tell the justice I have information for him.’ Thirst and anxiety roughened his voice.

  The butler’s expression did not alter as his glance flicked from the caked blood on Devlin’s temple to the dragoon’s cocked pistol. ‘One moment, Mr Varcoe.’ He closed the door.

  From the corner of his eye he saw the soldiers exchange a glance. Though they were still wary, he sensed an easing of their tension. But not his own. For his life and the lives of his crew depended on Casvellan reneging on his threat of no assistance. A tremor started in one leg and he shifted his weight. Instantly the pistol was raised. Aimed at his heart the barrel’s dark eye was perfectly steady.

  ‘Cramp,’ he said, careful to remain absolutely still. Minutes passed. Anxiety and anger knotted his stomach. If Casvellan refused to see him …

  The front door opened once more.

  Thomas left the Gillis household well pleased with his visit. He had hinted at his intention, and Morwenna Gillis was clearly anxious to secure him as a husband for her daughter. Tamara’s reluctance did not deter him. Having wanted her for years, and forced to watch while she made sheep’s eyes at his brother, he would relish her acceptance all the more. That she would accept was not in doubt. Her mother would see to it.

  Should the wedding be a grand affair? It would not take many weeks for the lawyers to transfer all Devlin’s assets to him. Once he was in funds it would be very tempting to host a lavish celebration. But did he really want to throw his money away on people who had openly questioned his business skills?

  Anyway, the wedding breakfast was the Gillises’ responsibility. Perhaps a small family occasion might be more suitable. Especially – Thomas found himself smiling – as he would still be in mourning for his poor dead brother.

  Yes, that was a better idea. The money would be better spent on refurbishing the house. Tamara could begin work on it when they returned from their honeymoon. Where would he take her? Truro, perhaps? The season would be starting soon. Every night there would be balls, parties, and dances where he could show her off. His new wealth would ensure invitations. Then they would return to their room at one of the best hotels.

  He pictured himself in an armchair, holding a glass of fine cognac, watching Tamara, his wife who had promised to love, honour, and obey him, as she slowly disrobed. He imagined the glow of firelight on her skin, her dark hair tumbling over her naked shoulders -

  The door opened, jerking him out of his fantasy. ‘Willie Grose is ’ere,’ his housekeeper announced. ‘Want to see’n, do ’e?’

  ‘No,’ Thomas snapped. Then, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which?’ Maisy Roberts was impatient.

  ‘Yes. Show him in.’

  ‘He knows the way. I got work to do.’

  He heard her footsteps down the hall. A few moments later the door creaked and Willie’s head appeared round it.

  ‘All right, Mr Varcoe? Cold again, innit?’

  Thomas ignored the hint. ‘Go down to the village and ask around. I need to know if the rumour is true.’

  ‘What rumour?’ Willie asked exactly as Thomas intended.

  ‘That my brother’s boat has been captured by one of the revenue cutters.’

  ‘Bleddy ’ell! Where d’ you hear that, then?’

  ‘That’s what I want you to find out,’ Thomas said, hiding his enjoyment of Willie’s confusion. Everything was working out exactly as he had planned. ‘Is it just a rumour? I need to know, Willie.’

  Willie’s bafflement hardened into a scowl. ‘Well, if ’Tis true, ’tis no more’n he deserve after what he done to my brother.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Best place to ask will be in the Five Mackerel. But Jack don’t let nobody sit in there without buying and I’ll have to stay a while. So –’

  ‘God alive,’ Thomas muttered. Opening a drawer in the side table by his chair he took out some coins and dropped them onto Willie’s grubby palm. ‘Come back tonight, after dark.’

  After drinking several glasses of brandy with his pasty, Thomas fell asleep. He woke with a start and checked the clock. It was almost four. Putting on his greatcoat, beaver hat, and leather gloves, he left the house.

  Reaching the harbour, he walked along the back of the quay past Devlin’s workshop with its padlocked door. He turned up the cobbled alley and slipped in through the gate, closing it behind him. At the top of the stone steps that led up to his brother’s loft he saw that door too was secured with a padlock.

  He looked around to see if there was a stone, a pot, or anything beneath which Devlin might have left a key. There wasn’t. Descending to the yard he looked in the privy, feeling along the wooden lintel above the door, checking the walls and behind the door in case there might be a nail with a spare key on it. Surely there was more than one? What if he mislaid it? But if there was another, who would Devlin trust to hold it?

  Jenefer was adding a column of figures when the brisk knock interrupted her. Setting down her pen and flexing cramped fingers she pushed back her chair. Who would come calling on her? It wasn’t Lizzie or Ernestine whose knocks were familiar. Betsy. Her heart lurched and she snatched the door open. Then stared in astonishment at the man standing outside.

  ‘Mr Varcoe.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Trevanion. I hope I haven’t called at an inconvenient time?’

  His smile was as insincere as his words. She had never liked him, and certainly didn’t trust him, convinced that from the day they had begun doing business together that Thomas Varcoe had cheated her father.

  ‘As it happens I am rather busy.’ No man of sense would expect to be invited in. Nor had she any intention of doing so. Yet she saw from his surprise and swiftly masked chagrin that he had presumed otherwise. Did he really believe the change in her circumstances somehow gave him right of entry? The sooner she disabused him of that notion the better. Though the cottage belonged to his brother it was, for the time being, her home.

  ‘What do you want, Mr Varcoe?’

  His smile stiffened then faded. She sensed his anger, saw the effort it cost him to remain polite.

  ‘My apologi
es for disturbing you. I wondered if my brother had left a key with you? A key to his loft?’

  Bemused, Jenefer shook her head. ‘No. Why would he?’

  ‘In case –’ Thomas half-turned. ‘It was just – I thought that as he had installed you in this cottage –’

  ‘You are offensive, sir!’ She owed him no explanation. ‘If there is nothing else –’

  ‘Forgive me. I did not intend –’ He bowed, abruptly formal. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Trevanion. I am in some distress. You see there is a rumour abroad in the village that the revenue cutter – my brother’s boat –’ He broke off, shaking his head. ‘So many people affected …’ With another brief bow he walked quickly away.

  Jenefer closed the door. Thomas’s words and the images they had conjured whirled in her head. Had Devlin been taken prisoner? Was he – God forbid – dead? She could not, would not, believe that. But fear slid down her spine like a drop of icy water.

  With Devlin dead, Thomas would inherit all his possessions, including this cottage. Then he would take revenge on her by making demands she was unwilling or unable to meet. She would be homeless again.

  But the rumour was still just that, a rumour. It had not been confirmed. Who had told him? Where had they heard it? Clearly he didn’t yet have all the facts. But he would soon. What then? Crossing to the range she pulled the kettle over the flames and wrapped her arms across her body, cold and fearful.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘The justice is sitting. His rooms are in the building opposite the stables. He will see you there, Mr Varcoe, without your escort.’ But as he took a step back, preparing to close the door, the dragoon raised his pistol.

  ‘He don’t go nowhere without us.’

  Unmoved, the butler looked the soldier up and down. ‘Mr Casvellan wishes to speak to your prisoner alone. I can assure you no harm will come to either of them while he does so. His clerk will be waiting to take Mr Varcoe to the justice. Once relieved of your prisoner you may present yourselves at the back door where you will be given a mug of ale. You may also water your horses.’

  Devlin watched his two escorts exchange a glance. One licked dry lips while the other gave a faint shrug.

  Taking for granted the soldiers’ agreement, the butler stepped back. ‘I advise you not to keep him waiting.’

  Pushing the pistol barrel gently aside with his index finger, careful not to betray even a glimmer of amusement as he wondered when and where the justice had acquired his manservant, Devlin turned and started walking round the side of the house.

  The swiftness and ferocity of the squall had allowed them no time to put on their oilskins. Stowed in the bow with the spare sails, these had been left aboard the lugger. When disembarking at Porthleven he had asked for them. This request had earned him further blows and the mocking response that they’d have no need of wet-weather gear where they were going.

  So Devlin had ridden from Porthleven in clothes that were wet, cold, and very uncomfortable.

  The clerk was a thin man of about forty with limp mousy hair drawn back in a queue. Dressed in black apart from his neckcloth and stockings, he peered over wire-rimmed spectacles perched on his prominent nose. His hooded gaze slid from Devlin to the dragoons and back.

  ‘This way if you please, Mr Varcoe.’

  Devlin followed the clerk up a wooden staircase to the second floor. A short passage led off the landing with a door on either side. One stood open. Devlin glanced in and saw a large table piled with ledgers and piles of documents. Behind it shelves from floor to ceiling were crammed with boxes, files, and stacks of documents tied with different coloured ribbons. The second door was closed. The clerk knocked then, without waiting for an answer, opened it.

  ‘Mr Varcoe, sir.’ Standing back he gestured for Devlin to enter, then closed the door leaving him alone with the justice.

  Standing on the maroon patterned carpet, Devlin was very conscious of his damp stained clothes and scuffed sea boots.

  Seated in front of a window behind a kneehole desk the justice stopped writing and laid down his pen. Leaning back in his chair he looked up, and his gaze narrowed.

  ‘You have blood on your face.’

  Devlin raised a hand to his temple, wincing as his fingers touched the swelling and crusted scab, then traced the dried runnels down to his jaw. ‘No chance to clean up, sir.’

  Rising, Casvellan moved across to the fireplace. Several logs burned brightly in the grate, their fragrance scenting the air. With his back to the flames he clasped his hands behind him and gazed levelly at Devlin.

  ‘I thought I had made myself clear.’

  ‘You did, sir.’

  ‘Then you’d better have a very good reason for coming here.’

  Devlin recognised the depth of Casvellan’s anger. ‘You will be the judge of that, sir.’

  ‘Exactly so.’ The quiet words carried a warning. ‘I want everything, Mr Varcoe. Not what it suits you to tell me, or what you think I wish to hear.’

  His life was in Casvellan’s hands. If the justice possessed other sources of information he might already be aware of what had happened. Total honesty, and trust in Casvellan’s fairness were his only options.

  Devlin began with the rumours circulating in Roscoff and his uncle’s warning not to be caught with the letters. He continued by detailing the cargo, the arrival of the revenue cutter and the attempted escape which included dumping the contraband.

  ‘Did you fire on the cutter?’ Casvellan asked.

  Devlin shook his head. ‘No. My boat isn’t armed, neither is my crew, apart from the knives and axes that are part of our fishing gear. You don’t carry guns unless you intend to use them. If you use them and you’re caught, the law says you hang. I’ve always relied on skilled seamanship to get out of trouble.’

  ‘Not this time.’

  ‘It wasn’t bad luck or carelessness that got us caught. The cutter was waiting for us. The captain knew where we’d be and when.’

  Twin creases appeared between Casvellan’s brows. ‘Someone betrayed you?’

  Devlin gave a terse nod. Anger burned in his gut each time he thought of it. Nearly everyone in the village was involved with the free trade. Those who helped unload a cargo, the batmen who ran alongside the pack animals to deal with any would-be thieves, the farmer who had dug a storage pit beneath his barn, and the priest who took care not to notice casks in his crypt. When the Riding Officer came asking questions, the villagers shrugged and shook their heads. They hadn’t heard or seen anything.

  ‘Tell me about the letter,’ Casvellan demanded.

  Devlin repeated what he had read, closing his eyes to help him to visualise the writing and recall the exact phrasing, including the brief notation on the outer sheet. He concluded by describing briefly the treatment his crew had received at the hands of the cutter’s men.

  ‘Did you offer resistance?’

  ‘Outnumbered four to one by men with pistols and muskets? No, we didn’t.’

  ‘So why …?’ he indicated the blood on Devlin’s face.

  ‘We were taken below. When two seamen brought out iron shackles and chains I said they weren’t necessary. Damn it, we had no weapons. We weren’t going anywhere. But they shackled us anyway.’

  ‘Given your reputation, Mr Varcoe, are you really surprised?’

  But Devlin had seen the flicker in Casvellan’s eyes. The point made, he pressed on. ‘Sir, I asked for this interview not only because of what was in the letter, information I believed you would want to know, but because I think I know who the agent is. If I’m right, the initials are those of Martin Erisey who is, or was, a diplomat. I know of him is because he is betrothed to Miss Trevanion whose father financed our ventures. Colonel Trevanion died in the fire that destroyed their house.’

  Casvellan nodded. ‘I heard about that. Go on.’

  ‘She – Miss Trevanion – believes Erisey to be in America. But he was expected back weeks ago.’

  ‘I see.’ Casvell
an’s frown grew more pronounced.

  ‘Sir, it’s clear from his letter he’s in grave danger. He needs to get out of France. Let me go and bring him back.’

  Casvellan didn’t respond immediately. Knowing better than to press, Devlin waited.

  ‘And in return? For we both know there is a price on your offer.’

  Devlin met his gaze. ‘My boat, and freedom for my crew and myself.’

  Casvellan regarded him evenly, his expression revealing nothing. ‘You want your boat and your freedom? After you were caught smuggling contraband?’

  ‘They can’t prove that, sir. We had nothing on board.’

  ‘You ask a lot, Mr Varcoe.’

  ‘I offer a fair trade, sir. And I know the man by sight.’

  ‘Assuming you could make good on this claim, why should I agree such terms?’

  ‘Sir, you trusted me to carry your letter to Roscoff. I’ve just given you important information. What can you lose? If I bring Erisey back he’ll have more to tell than he could put in letters. That must be worth my freedom. If I’m killed while trying to bring him out,’ Devlin shrugged, ‘so be it. Better that than prison.’

  Casvellan half-turned, staring into the flames for several moments. Then he raised his head. ‘This agent is owed help to get home. However, if I agree your terms you cannot tell your crew where they are going or why.’

  Devlin’s mouth dried, but his response was immediate and firm. ‘Can’t do that, sir. It’s no secret that free traders sometimes bring back escaped prisoners of war from France. British Naval officers mostly, but packet men as well. I’m willing to use that as a cover story. But for this to succeed I need my mate, Jared Sweet. I won’t lie to him, or to my crew. It’s a matter of trust.’

  In the silence Devlin heard his own heartbeat and the soft crackle of the fire, and willed the justice to agree.

  Eventually Casvellan gave an abrupt nod. ‘All right. Is the Revenue cutter still at Porthleven?’

  Devlin shook his head. ‘Probably on its way back to Falmouth. The captain was furious about the Customs officer allowing me to come and see you.’