by Robin Blake
When he had finished, his accompanist rose and stood facing him.
‘The servants are out,’ she murmured, and putting her hands on his shoulders, she raised herself on her tiptoes and kissed his mouth.
Her name was Mrs Belinda Butler, a fair-haired, nicely proportioned woman of thirty-five whose husband, Captain Butler, had been lost at sea five years earlier, leaving to her the house and a sum of money from his life insurance. Luke had known Mrs Butler since the autumn, and had become a regular visitor. I do not think he had fallen in love with her in the dreamy, impractical, boyish way that I had known him fall before; but he and Mrs Butler had a firm and fond understanding that rested on the base of their mutual needs and desires.
So, as a matter of course, he took her up to bed and they gave themselves over to the conversation of the body. Then, as was their custom afterwards, they lay side by side, talking and often laughing together about odd things they had seen and done since their last meeting. But what she broached with him this evening was less of a laughing matter.
‘I have something to tell you,’ she said, ‘which I fear you will not like, but I must. A gentleman has been calling on me and he has asked me to be his wife.’
I imagine Fidelis lay still for some moments, before making any reply. Then:
‘Shall you accept?’
And I imagine Mrs Butler waiting for this inevitable question, and having her answer ready.
‘I believe I shall. I have lived a good enough life since Captain Butler was lost, but my portion from his insurance shrinks by the year.’
‘Who is the man? What’s his name?’
‘Mr Moreton Canavan. A merchant, a most genial gentleman and very well-dressed.’
‘I do not like him already. How long have you known him?’
‘Since last month.’
‘Then you hardly do know him.’
Her husky laugh pleased his ear.
‘Yes I do! He declares he has a great love of music, and also the theatre, which he attends constantly.’
‘But how can you tell he is sincere? He loves you, I hope?’
‘He has assured me that he does.’
‘And he has competent means? He can keep you fitly?’
‘I do believe so. He tells me he has his own carriage and horses, and a horse for the races too, and good land in West Derby. He plans to build a house there and hunt, and one day hopes to become Master of the Hunt.’
‘A sportsman as well as a drama-loving merchant! Who do you know that can attest to his character?’
‘He was brought to this house by the Captain’s cousin William.’
‘You told me William is a halfwit.’
She sighed.
‘So he is, I fear.’
‘Does no one else know this Canavan? I am concerned that he don’t abuse you.’
‘I can hardly think that he will.’
‘You must be sure. I shall make enquiries myself. Do you know anyone in his circle?’
‘I only know of a Mr Pimbo. He is a business associate of some sort.’
Fidelis looked at his mistress in extreme surprise. ‘Pimbo? You cannot mean Phillip Pimbo, the Preston goldsmith?’
‘I don’t know about his being a goldsmith, but that was certainly his silly name.’
‘Well, this is extraordinary!’
‘Why? Do you know him?’
‘He is, or was, Preston’s largest goldsmith. He has died. I have just left a letter concerning him at Pinchbeck’s Coffee House. What do you know about Pimbo and your Mr Canavan?’
‘Very little. Mr Canavan wrote him a memorandum at my writing desk which after making a fair copy he crumpled into my waste paper basket.’
‘When was this?’
‘Last Sunday afternoon.’
‘And you read the rough copy of the memorandum?’
He heard that bewitching laugh again.
‘Of course I read it. I am a woman, a mere spectator of affairs, but I lose no opportunity to spectate.’
‘Do you have it still?’
‘I put it back in the basket. It is long gone now.’
‘What did it say?’
‘Oh, it was conveying bad news. A ship had been reported lost at sea, with all hands presumed drowned. That is why I read it – I was put sadly in mind of poor Captain Butler.’
‘What ship was it? Did he name her?’
‘No – he just called her “the ship”, I think. The memorandum told that Canavan was not sure if these reports were true, or fabricated by someone called Moon for his own gain, but at all events Pimbo ought to steel himself for some bad news about his investment.’
I imagine at this point Fidelis was quiet for a time, thinking over what Mrs Butler had told him. And, at some time after that, she would have risen from the bed and perhaps pulled on a shift, saying,
‘The servants will be home soon. It would be better not to embarrass them, doctor.’
Quickly Fidelis dressed and they went downstairs where Mrs Butler drew him by the hand into the parlour.
‘Just one more tune before you go,’ she said and sat down again to her bass-viol. This time it was a jaunty, optimistic air she played, and she smiled all the while, even laughing at one point when she caught his pensive eyes fixed on her face. When she had dragged her bow across the strings in the last chord she laid the instrument carefully aside.
‘Dear doctor,’ she said in a soft voice. ‘I hardly need say that my marriage to Mr Moreton Canavan would necessarily bring an end to … this.’
She gestured not very precisely at the space between them. He nodded his head.
‘Of course. Yes. I understand.’
‘Shall you mind?’
‘I am a grown man and will live. You shall always be in my memory as a true and treasured friend and an accomplice in pleasure.’
With these eloquent words – which I cannot swear to, but only hope he spoke, or words very like them – he kissed her one more time and left without glancing back. For her part I am sure she stood at the door looking after him as he made his way along the street.
* * *
Fidelis’s sense that he had been followed earlier in the day was immediately rekindled as he walked away from Mrs Butler’s house along Edmund Street. While she had been so pleasantly entertaining him indoors, a sharp shower of rain had fallen and the dampness now made footsteps crunch audibly on the ground. This was what he heard behind his back as he turned the corner into Old Hall Street. Determined to discover his pursuer he stationed himself with his back to the wall immediately around the corner. The footsteps approached. At the very moment that the one making them would turn the corner Fidelis raised his leg. The fellow was caught at shin height and went sprawling down.
‘Good God! Jacob Parkin – is it you?’
The fallen man lay for a moment with his nose in a puddle, immobilized by the embarrassment of his situation. Then he placed both palms on the ground and pushed himself up. Back on his feet he smiled nervously at Fidelis, shook the water off his hands, and wiped his muddy nose dry.
‘Yes, doctor, it’s me.’
Jacob Parkin who, with his brother Esau, was one of the two constables appointed at Preston to assist Sergeant Mallender in his duties, looked like a boy expecting the birch from his governor.
‘So, you must explain yourself,’ demanded Fidelis. ‘Why are you dogging my steps?’
‘Mr Mallender asked me to keep an eye on you. In case you came to harm, so he said.’
Fidelis roared with laughter.
‘What harm would that be? I wonder. That I might fall into the dock and drown? Come, come. He sent you to spy on me, admit it.’
Jacob’s hands let each other go and dropped to his side. He straightened himself and his voice acquired a measure of defiance.
‘He was concerned for your safety, doctor.’
Briefly Fidelis’s face darkened with anger but then, without warning, his manner changed. He smiled, took a gentle hold on Jac
ob’s arm and began to steer him along the road. At this stage kindness was more potent than curses.
‘Come across to my inn, Jacob. We need to have a talk, you and I.’
The Mermaid Inn stood nearby, on the other side of the street. It was a comfortable but by no means palatial house where, a few hours earlier, Fidelis had engaged a bedroom. The two men found a table in the dining room and Fidelis ordered wine, cold meats and pickles. Jacob would not be used to wine and it would be sure to loosen his tongue.
‘Having you follow me all the way to Liverpool cannot have been Oswald Mallender’s idea, Jacob,’ he said after a few draughts had gone down. ‘Who gave him the order? Was it the Mayor?’
Jacob again drained his glass.
‘Happen so, doctor, happen so. Sergeant gets his orders from no one but the Corporation, and Mayor’s at the top of that. In Preston, as we know, it is the Mayor rules all, and so it must be.’
I have noted it in men that, as the drink goes down, they tend to load mundane remarks with the weight of philosophical truth. Now, having pondered his own wisdom for a moment, Jacob held out his empty glass like a child for more. Fidelis obliged.
‘And did Mallender mention a man called Zadok Moon at all?’ he asked.
‘Oh, aye. Zadok Moon. He is wanted in Preston. We want him. The Mayor wants him.’
‘So it is not my safety you are most concerned with, after all. It is the whereabouts of this Moon. You lied to me, Jacob.’
Jacob’s admission was sheepish.
‘I know. But I do what I’m told. See, the Sergeant said most particular, I was not to let you discover me.’
‘But what did he say to you about Zadok Moon? What does he want him for?’
‘He’s a witness in Mr Pimbo the goldsmith’s death.’
‘That’s true,’ confirmed Fidelis. ‘As I know because I myself have been enquiring after him on behalf of the Coroner. But that is not the business of the Sergeant, or the Mayor.’
‘The way I see it, doctor, is what isn’t their business is nobody’s business. D’you follow me? They wanted me to take particular note of where you would meet Moon. And then most particular to find out Moon’s residence, by trailing him there.’
His cup was drained again and so, more significantly, was the bottle. But instead of ordering a new one, Fidelis stood up and spoke sharply to the constable.
‘It’s time to give this up, Jacob. Your mission is revealed to me and you are unmasked. You are miles from your own parish and have no conceivable authority here. Take a bed for the night and trot back to Preston first thing. You may report to your masters that I have not found Zadok Moon, and they must be satisfied with that.’
Jacob turned his watery eyes towards the empty wine bottle, beside which Fidelis now laid some money.
‘Pay for what we’ve had out of that, and get yourself another drink with what’s left. I wish you good-night.’
Chapter Ten
RISING EARLY IN the morning Fidelis wrote the letter to me that I have already transcribed. He asked about the postal service between Liverpool and Preston, and the landlord, taking possession of the letter, engaged to put it on the seven o’clock post-chaise, which would get it to its destination by ten-thirty.
There was no sign of Jacob Parkin, whom he presumed to be sleeping off the effects of the previous night’s wine. Happy enough to leave the constable snoring, Fidelis went out, meaning to break his fast at Pinchbeck’s Coffee House. But first he strolled to the bottom of Pool Lane to have a look at the celebrated Dock.
I have seen this remarkable feat of engineering for myself: a rectangular basin of deep water constructed in stone and invested by wharves and warehouses on three sides, with the Customs House on the fourth and a cleverly conceived floodgate, or rather lock, to allow ships to pass in from the estuary to discharge their cargoes, and out again to sea. Standing on the wharf, the dense array of uplifted masts and spars, with their webs of cordage and netting, made an impression like a ghostly leafless forest rising from the water through the morning mist. Ships were tied up alongside each other in twos and threes, and the business of loading and unloading was going on in a cacophony of rolling barrels, screeching blocks and the shouts and curses of the dock men.
A one-armed old seafarer sat on a bollard. As he puffed at his pipe, his eyes darting this way and that, he was taking in every activity on the dock. Fidelis approached and, seeing an opportunity, fell into conversation. Had there been a vessel called The Fortunate Isle here, he asked. The old man narrowed his eyes.
‘Oh aye, that one. She sailed last year – September, October. Guinea voyage they said. Not likely, I thought. I never saw an old ship so badly set for it.’
‘You mean she was not seaworthy?’
‘I’ll not say that. Depends on the sea. But I will say that to my eye she wouldn’t stand long in the deep ocean. No, Sir! I didn’t like the look of her planks. The seas out there are murderous. The Guinea Trade is murderous, which no one in Liverpool knows better than me. Thirty years on snows and brigantines I was. For ten years I was pressed into the Navy. I was on a ship once when—’
‘That is an impressive career,’ Fidelis interrupted, holding up his hand. He did not have the patience to listen to a string of yarns. ‘It is this particular ship that I want to know about, however – The Fortunate Isle. Did you see her loaded? What cargo did she carry?’
Denied the chance to tell his life’s history, the sailor shrugged and pouted.
‘I dunno that I saw her loaded.’
He knocked out his pipe against his knee, scattered the ash into the water, sent a gob of spit after it and said,
‘You’ll spare an old man a fill of ’bacco, I suppose.’
Fidelis drew out his tobacco pouch, handed it over and, while the old man stuffed his pipe one-handed, asked as if by the way.
‘Would you as an old sea hand be so kind as to settle a matter that I have been arguing about? In which direction, pray, do the trade winds blow?’
* * *
Returning to Pinchbeck’s Fidelis ordered coffee and toast and looked around him. The coffee house was even livelier than it had been on the previous evening. Men of business sat together with ship’s officers at almost every table eating their breakfasts and poring over papers, charts and newspaper reports. At the other end of Fidelis’s table three men were arguing amiably about the future price of tallow. A fourth man sat directly opposite him with creased brow, spectacles on his nose and an abacus and a bundle of papers before him. He was running his index finger down a column of figures while mouthing the numbers and pausing occasionally to flick the abacus beads across. Fidelis noticed that the base of the abacus bore a paper label with the name of Pinchbeck’s on it. Every possible convenience of business, it seemed, was provided in this place.
During the time it took Fidelis to eat his toast, his counting neighbour completed and noted down the totals of figures on three sheets of paper. He had just picked up a fourth and was tilting it towards the light and peering at it when Fidelis leaned across and made a noisy clearance of his throat.
‘I am looking,’ he said, ‘for the merchant Moreton Canavan. Is he present here and, if so, will you kindly point him out?’
With a degree of deliberation, the stranger laid down the paper, reset the abacus and, bending a little back in his chair, swivelled his head whilst peering over the rims of the spectacles.
‘Moreton Canavan,’ he said returning to the perpendicular, and with a sigh of indifference, ‘is at the table beside the fireplace. He is the plumpest member of the company.’
Upon which his brow creased again and he returned to his calculations.
Looking across the room Fidelis saw that Mrs Butler’s suitor was a florid, thickset fellow of about fifty, and that he was doing a good deal of laughing, and his companions were laughing, with a certain obsequiousness, along. Fidelis observed them carefully as he refilled and sipped from his coffee cup. Canavan did much of the talking, a
nd appeared to be entertaining the others with tales, and also with opinions, for he heard the occasional shout of ‘Odds on it!’ and ‘No word of a lie!’
Fidelis drained his cup. Rising and approaching the table, he coughed into his fist.
‘Do I have the honour of addressing Mr Moreton Canavan?’ he asked.
Interrupted in his flow the older man darted a look upwards.
‘You do,’ he replied. ‘Who are you?’
‘Fidelis, Doctor Fidelis.’
‘Clergyman or physician?’
‘The latter.’
‘I don’t believe I’ve seen you in this Coffee House before, Sir.’
‘I came in here for the first time yesterday.’
‘That would explain it, for I rarely come here on the Sabbath.’
He gave a hearty laugh, as if he had said something funny, and lifted his cup of coffee to his mouth.
‘I wonder, do you know a gentleman named Moon – Zadok Moon?’
Canavan gave a kind of hiccup as he drank, as if the hot coffee had scalded his throat. As he slowly reunited the cup and the saucer, Fidelis watched his face change from vast good humour to sober seriousness.
‘I might know him,’ he said cautiously. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I would like him pointed out to me, if he is present. I have a letter for him.’
Canavan dabbed his lips with a napkin and seemed to make up his mind to something. He looked around.
‘He is over there, Sir.’
He pointed towards the most crowded part of the room, so that it was impossible to decide which individual Canavan had indicated. In a bustling way, the merchant jumped to his feet. He was tall and, though his coat was that of a gentleman, there was much of the boxing booth about his manner.
‘Allow me to fetch him to you here, Sir.’
He marched across the room and into the noisy throng, pushing between those that were standing until he reached a slight, dark-haired and bearded man who sat with a noisy company of breakfasters. At first Moon looked quite put-out, as if he did not want to break off from those he was with, even for a moment. But Canavan leaned down and spoke into his ear, whereupon Moon got up and consented to be guided across the room to where Fidelis was waiting, with my letter in his hand.