by Erica Brown
‘Did I hear correctly?’ Conrad stood there, the width of his shoulders almost filling the door.
Blanche had always avoided mentioning Tom’s name in Conrad’s presence. Conrad had liked and spent time with him, but he’d be a fool indeed if he believed she hadn’t cared for Tom. Something flickered briefly in his eyes then was gone.
‘What exactly has happened?’ he asked more congenially.
Again, Edith repeated everything that Jim Storm Cloud had told her.
Conrad agreed that it was awful and unbelievable.
‘Perhaps those tea things could go downstairs now,’ Blanche said finally. If she allowed Edith to ramble on, the fact that Blanche had already met Tom was bound to slip out. But Conrad mustn’t know because then he would expect her to explain in greater detail, and if she had to do that he would see her guilt written large all over her face.
Edith and the tea tray finally departed and the drawing-room door was closed.
‘My dear,’ said Conrad, taking hold of her hands. ‘Do you think I should do anything about this terrible affair?’
No one but Conrad could be so charitable, thought Blanche. It seemed a terrible imposition to ask him to do anything, but she couldn’t help it. The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. ‘What can you do, my dear? We know nothing of the details, do we?’
Conrad massaged the backs of her hands with his thumbs, his eyes lowered as though he were considering whether he should mention something. At last he said, ‘Yes, my dear. I do. The night before Tom sailed for America ten years ago, he came to call and told me of finding Clarence Ward, Sally’s son with a hammer in his hand and this man, this Reuben Trout lying dead in the straw. He said he could not possibly turn the boy in and had told him to run. I don’t think he really expected to be blamed. The dead man had many enemies, but perhaps Tom has enemies too.’
She didn’t know how she knew, but Conrad had noticed her breathlessness. Perhaps he also knew she hadn’t admitted to knowing that Tom was back in England. A few years of living together and habits, mannerisms, the blink of an eyelid, the barely imperceptible tightening of expression, were easily read. But Conrad is charitable, she told herself. Let bygones be bygones. Surely all that mattered was a mutual regard for an old friend?
‘Can you do anything?’ she asked.
For a moment she saw pain in his eyes and wished he hadn’t heard, wished she hadn’t asked him to help. He loved her deeply. She knew that. He also knew that there was still a soft spot in her heart for Tom Strong and if he asked her outright, she couldn’t deny it.
‘I will see what I can do,’ he replied, and she found herself loving him for it.
* * *
At some time past midnight, Tom woke abruptly and stared into the darkness.
He’d been dreaming of the men he’d faced in the boxing ring, their faces bloated by punches, blood trickling from a split nostril or a cut lip. How many men had he fought? Fifteen? Twenty? He’d won most of those fights. Any one of his opponents, or even one of the men who’d served under him on board ship might bear a grudge for some trivial slight and want revenge.
Lying in the darkness, it seemed suddenly funny that he hadn’t thought about it before. He’d pummelled some men and ordered others to do things they hadn’t always wanted to do. What the hell did he expect?
He burst out laughing at the absurdity of it all.
‘I don’t see anything funny,’ someone shouted from another cell.
P’raps he got a bit of belly and bum in there with ’im,’ someone else shouted.
Tom’s laughter diminished. Of course it wasn’t funny. It was tragic. Sally Ward’s life had been tragic, and so had that of her son. Where was Clarence now?
The rest of his sleep was fitful. He’d missed the launch of his beloved ship and if he didn’t clear his name he wouldn’t get to sail on her either.
* * *
At the insistence of Horatia Strong, Septimus Monk visited Tom in his cell. Although he’d accompanied Horatia to Monk’s offices, Tom had never seen the lawyer in the flesh. His appearance came as something of a surprise.
Septimus Monk was extremely tall and wore a green striped waistcoat, a frock coat with braided collar and cuffs, and a large, yellow spotted cravat.
Just for once, Tom felt small, almost dowdy in the presence of such a large, colourful man.
Monk sniffed as he looked round. ‘We can better this,’ he said, raising a lace-trimmed handkerchief to his nose and keeping it there. He wore rings on three fingers of each hand and the smell of violets wafted around the bare walls with each graceful wave of his hand or tilt of his head.
Tom stood fairly and squarely in the middle of the cell, which seemed to have become much smaller since the arrival of Septimus Monk. He said nothing in response to the lawyer’s initial comments.
‘Your freedom is gained,’ said Monk, unperturbed by his client’s silence. ‘Get your things together. Everything is arranged. You’ll be back at Marstone Court in time for lunch.’
Tom buried his hostility and indicated the clothes he stood up in. ‘This is all I have.’
‘Good,’ said Monk from behind the handkerchief, which he kept firmly held against his nose. ‘Two hours. Be ready.’
Consternated and slightly angered by Monk’s verbal frugality, the delivery of which was almost as sharp as the hooked nose above the handkerchief, Tom grabbed the man’s arm as he turned to leave. ‘You mean I’m a free man?’
Monk’s eyes were like black beads. ‘Of course not. A sympathetic judge has placed you in the custody of Sir Emmanuel Strong. Miss Horatia is collecting you in the carriage. You are to reside at Marstone Court until such time as you are brought to trial, which basically means that as long as you don’t leave the county, you can do as you please.’
‘My God,’ said Tom, throwing back his head and closing his eyes.
‘God had nothing to do with it,’ said Monk. ‘You were just lucky enough to employ the good services of Septimus Monk, barrister and solicitor at law.’ The corners of a smile appeared at either side of his handkerchief. ‘I am also a man who knows who does what to whom – on a very personal level – in this city.’
‘I’m impressed.’
At that moment, it struck Tom just how dangerous a character Monk really was. Although his body shouted muscular masculinity, his clothes were too dandified for Tom’s and many other men’s tastes. And yet, thought Tom, his mind, his acquaintances and the way he carried out his work were deadly.
Monk sniffed the cologne-soaked handkerchief. ‘Money talks and has told those who matter that a gentleman’s word is his bond. I persuaded them that as a member of the Strong family you were an honourable man and did not deserve to be incarcerated with the less than salubrious characters one finds in these places. I also reminded the most powerful of these personages that I had seen him most becomingly dressed in a black lace corset and silk stockings. The blue garters with little bells and pink satin bows were particularly fetching, if I remember correctly.’
Tom was both amazed and amused by his candour. Septimus Monk knew everything about everyone. He was likely the most dangerous man in the city.
‘So in effect I am under house arrest. Is that what you are saying?’
‘Only if you want the best legal representation in the city,’ stated Monk. Eyeing their surroundings with obvious disdain, he added, ‘I do not conduct my business in pigsties.’ He cocked an eyebrow. ‘And I only work for very large fees. Very large fees indeed, Captain Strong.’
* * *
Tom was tempted to jump into the carriage, get to Marstone Court and soak away the damp stench of prison.
‘Tempus fugit, Thomas Strong! Or do you prefer the accommodation provided by Her Majesty’s prison?’ Green feathers fixed to a dark red bonnet bobbed out of the carriage window. Horatia looked impatient.
He knew he should thank her cordially, then turn swiftly away and go to do what had to be done. But he owe
d her the courtesy of acknowledging his debt to her and his adopted family. Smiling, he took hold of her gloved hand, running his thumb over the soft chamois before holding it to his mouth, his eyes fixed on hers.
‘How can I ever repay you?’
He fancied she held her breath, assuming he was going to kiss her mouth. Her disappointment was tangible when he only kissed her cheek, like a brother would his sister.
‘You need a bath,’ she said, wrinkling her nose and pushing him away with an air of repugnance. ‘And your clothes stink. I only hope we have enough soap and water at Marstone Court.’
Smiling, he shook his head. ‘I’m most grateful for everything you’ve done, Horatia, but I can’t come with you just yet.’
‘Why not?’
‘There are questions that need answering. I need to find Clarence Ward.’
‘No, you don’t. Septimus Monk will find him. Please, Tom.’ Her voice pleaded. Tom looked towards the far gate that opened on to the main thoroughfare running alongside the Floating Harbour. Tradesmen were setting up stalls and sweepers were shovelling horse droppings into the river. Within a black shadow thrown by a prison tower, someone watched him.
He released her hands. ‘I have to go.’
Horatia almost fell out of the carriage window, her indignation ringing in his ears. ‘You’re supposed to come home with me! You can’t just go wandering around the city as if you were a free man!’
He shook his head. ‘I have to find Clarence Ward. Not that he’s likely to rush to hang in my place, but my plight may tug at his conscience. It’s a slim hope, but it’s all I have.’
‘Leave it to the lawyer. He’s well paid and well connected,’ Horatia pleaded.
Tom shook his head. ‘I value my life. I will not risk its continuance to a pretty-smelling peacock with the airs of a lord and the habits of a—’
‘I know what he is,’ said Horatia. ‘He has the Greek disease. I know that! I also know he has the shrewdest legal mind in Bristol.’
‘As Jeb would have said, God helps those who help themselves. Now leave me to investigate. Go home. I promise I shall see you there. I promise!’
Tom couldn’t find any words to explain how he felt. He couldn’t sit around at Marstone Court waiting for someone else to turn a stone and study what crawled out. It was his life under threat, no one else’s.
He waited until the coach had rumbled away, sparks flying as iron shoes struck the cobbles. It then occurred to him that he’d failed to ask her about the launching of Miriam Strong and she had not offered any details. It would keep. There were more pressing matters to attend to.
He made his way to where the prison tower threw a black shadow. Jim Storm Cloud stepped out from where he’d been hiding without comment and proceeded to walk beside him. They walked silently, each giving the other space to think and speak in their own good time.
Tom sensed Jim’s concern, but did not meet his eyes. Instead he studied the narrow alleys that radiated away from the quay, upwards to Steep Street, Zed Alley and Christmas Steps. He remembered the smaller alleys didn’t have names. Dirt, despair, debauchery and desolation; those were the words conjured up by the places in which he had spent his early childhood before his adoption by Jeb Strong.
When the thoughts became too big, he said, ‘I know this city, Jim. Some call it a city of churches. You see the spires?’
Jim traced the line of spires from St Nicholas, to St John’s to St Stephen’s and beyond, in the far distance to St Mary Redcliffe, and back to the square turret of the cathedral. He nodded. ‘I see them.’
A movement in an alley, perhaps an angry exchange between a quayside whore and her client, caught Tom’s attention.
‘In my boyhood I thought it was hell,’ he said quietly.
‘And in your manhood?’
Tom shrugged. ‘I don’t know. What do you think, Jim?’
Jim hesitated then said, ‘I remember the missionaries coming to our village and telling us about hell and heaven. They said both were of our own making. I believe they are right.’
Tom went with him on board the Demerara Queen. He needed to think about where he should start his investigations.
Resting his hands upon the ship’s rails, he hunched his shoulders and looked down into scummy water that clung like glue to the side of the ship. ‘They didn’t know this city.’
Jim shook his head resignedly and smiled. ‘I will stay on the ship, Captain, while you find out whether you’ve returned to heaven or hell, though I would prefer to help.’
‘I don’t think you can. This is private business.’
‘If that is how you want it.’
‘That’s how I want it,’ said Tom and walked away.
He made his way alongside the Floating Harbour to where the River Frome met the Avon. The water around the opening where the smaller river tumbled out was the colour of liquid moss and looked solid enough to walk on. Steam rose with the warming day, whirling every so often each time someone emptied a pail of house filth to sink or swim upon the grim surface.
‘Well, that hasn’t changed much,’ Tom muttered. Taking shallow breaths and burying his mouth into his collar helped him cope with the stink. Eventually, the worst was left behind as he headed towards the Fourteen Stars, the place at the heart of all his troubles.
The black-timbered tavern was unchanged. It still attracted an odd mix of customers – ruffians you’d prefer not to meet in a dark alley and men of means, smoking best Virginia, drinking port and wagering on the next fight, regardless of whether it was between cockerels, dogs or men.
A man smoking a stately meerschaum raised one black and querulous eyebrow. ‘Are you looking for somebody in particular?’
‘A familiar face,’ Tom answered. His eyes searched the shadowy figures bent over pewter mugs, their faces ruddy from rough weather and too much drink.
‘What name?’ asked the man with the pipe.
The others bent to their tankards, uninterested in talking to strangers and hostile to questions being asked about anyone. The old man, Tom decided, was his best bet.
‘Clarence Ward. He’d be about twenty years old now. I remember he had brown hair and blue eyes. Ordinary looking,’ he added almost apologetically.
What a fool he must sound. How many twenty-year-olds were there in Bristol with brown hair and blue eyes? Hundreds? Thousands?
The old man’s mouth widened in what could have been a smile or a sneer.
‘You means Sally’s boy, don’t you?’
Tom was taken by surprise.
The old man nodded, his old eyes sparkling. ‘I remembers you. You’re Tom Strong. I also remembers you and ’er being friends – if you know what I mean.’
He winked lasciviously. Tom controlled a sharp denial. There’d been many people who’d assumed Clarence was his son. Few could understand that his interest in the boy and his mother was primarily because he had felt able to identify with them. Like the boy, he’d seen his own mother sell her body and steadily slide into despair.
‘Do you know his whereabouts?’ he asked.
The old man screwed up his right eye and fixed him with a hard stare from the other.
‘Could be I do – though not direct, if you knows what I mean. Not where he actually is – more so’s where ’e might be, if you knows what I mean.’
This was obviously a man who liked taking his time telling a tale, Tom thought. Resigned to the fact, he pulled up a stool and ordered a measure of rum for himself and a jug of cider for the old man, who thanked him before draining half the contents, his pipe remaining clenched in his teeth as he drank. After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he fixed his one eye back on Tom’s face and resumed his tale.
‘Did well for ’imself, so I ’ear. I heard he had some sort of accident. Knocked ’is head or sommut, was sick, then got adopted by a rich man – nowhere near as rich as the Strongs mind you, but plenty in ’is pocket and ’is fingers in many pies, if you knows what I mean.’
>
Tom resisted the urge to tell him that he didn’t need to keep repeating himself. He knew exactly what he meant. Patience was not one of Tom’s virtues, but he made the effort.
‘Go on,’ he said.
The old man poured the rest of the cider down his throat before he spoke. Not a drop was spilt despite the meershaum pipe jiggling at the corner of his mouth.
‘Terrible dry in here,’ he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Tom ordered another. It was a small price to pay for his life.
He was almost trembling with amazement at the news that Clarence had been plucked from poverty by a wealthy man, exactly as he had been. He was glad for the boy, but also glad for himself. If it was true that a man of means had adopted Clarence, he should be easier to find than on the mean streets of the city.
‘So who was it adopted him?’
The old man shrugged and wiped his mouth again before answering.
‘Don’t know, Cap’n. Terrible times it was then, a lot of toing and froing of people because the cholera had come again, and people were dying. Those with the wherewithal were locking their places up, or selling property for a song and leaving the city. ’Twas the making of some and the undoing of others, if you knows what I means.’
Tom eyed the old man suspiciously and wondered how much was true and how much the old man yearned for someone to talk to. ‘It’s not much to go on.’
‘Though I did hear that the family went to Australia. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure they did. Course, you could check it with Aggie, her that used to run her narrowboat up and down the Severn.’
Australia! It was the worse thing the old man could have said. Tom’s hopes for finding Clarence in the bosom of his adoptive family disappeared.
His gaze wandered around the old inn he knew so well. It was next door, in Bennetts Carriers, that he’d fought the odd bare-knuckle fight. There was one in particular that he’d purposely lost in an act of revenge. Cuthbert Stoke, who had once frequented this place, arranged fights, owned run-down hovels and kept a stable of streetwalkers, had bet a lot of money on him winning. He smiled at the thought of Stoke’s face when he’d lost. That was for Sally, he thought. Stoke had treated her shamefully. He blessed her memory before bidding farewell to the old man.