by Erica Brown
In one swift movement, Tom enfolded the gold coin back into his own palm.
‘I lied,’ he said, a determined look in his eyes and a firmness to his chin that Fenwick Clements immediately interpreted as meaning he was in trouble.
‘I didn’t ’ave nothin’ to do with that dog scam. It was Spike and Edith. Tell ’er ladyship that. Not me, honest. Not me!’
Tom grabbed one of the man’s lapels. The rotten material ripped easily, leaving Tom with nothing but a strip of it hanging from his hand. As Fenwick tried to rush for the door, Tom stuck out a boot. Fenwick went flying face down on the floor while his aunt, Edith’s mother, screamed blue murder.
Tom shouted over his shoulder at her. ‘Shut up if you want Edith to keep earning a wage.’
Mrs Clements stopped screaming instantly.
Tom bent over Fenwick, his knee resting on the thin chest. ‘Never mind Australia. Let me tell you a story. There was a poor boy starving around the sugar barrels on the wharves where the ships bring in the produce of the Strong plantation. And one night a guardian angel came along and took him under his wing, thanks to the fact that this guardian angel had lost a son. And the adopted boy felt he owed a debt to that boy all his life, and then the chance came for him to pay back that debt by telling the truth about how he died. The beloved son I replaced was named Jasper Strong and I think you know what happened to him.’
‘He was drowned!’ Fenwick blurted, his eyes wide with fear.
Tom shook his head. ‘The truth. Tell me the truth.’
Fenwick shuddered and his breathing became laboured. Tom pressed his knee more keenly into his chest.
‘Tell. Me.’
‘All… all… right.’
Recognizing that the man was having difficulty breathing, Tom eased the pressure on his chest.
‘Tell me. Now!’
Gasping for breath, Fenwick began.
‘Abraham Green, the poacher, was drunk when I called with the vegetable cart the day after the boy disappeared to collect the deer he’d nabbed. I got him to his feet and asked him where he’d got the drink. He said he’d got it in the house. There’d been no one about for a while, so he’d taken what he wanted. He said he had a headache and couldn’t remember exactly what had happened, but he kind of remembered chasing a boy. Ran like a rabbit, he said, and laughed. Said he ran after him, just to frighten him like, so’s he wouldn’t tell.’
Fenwick licked his lips, his eyes rolling in his head as he tried to catch his breath. ‘I can’t… breathe,’ he muttered. ‘Please, give me water.’
Mrs Clements shoved a pewter mug under his nose as Tom got him to a sitting position. It looked like water, but smelled like gin.
Fenwick gulped it down. Some trickled down his chin and seeped on to his ragged clothes.
Impatient, Tom grabbed the empty mug and handed it back to Mrs Clements.
‘Go on.’
‘Abe liked frightening children. Did it in the village all the time. Said the boy ran into a room at the top of the house and hid. Saw his footsteps in the dust, he said, so knew he’d hid up the chimney. Thought that would frighten him enough. T’weren’t till the next day that I heard about the boy drowning. We was dragging the deer up to the cart when they caught us. There was people everywhere. We never expected that. And Abe panicked, then ran. That was when he got shot.’
Fenwick seemed suddenly to notice Tom’s stillness and the faraway look in his eyes.
‘Was that the boy you was on about? The boy that drowned?’
Tom got to his feet and headed out of the door. He’d discovered the truth. He could now tell Jeb exactly how and why his son had died. But was that the reason he’d wanted to know in the first place, just so he could tell Jeb the truth?
On reflection it was the last thing he could do, especially now. The shock would kill Jeb. But what about when Jeb was close to dying, when there was no doubt that tomorrow would never come, could he tell him then?
Striding back along the dirty alleys, where bawds fought over the right to approach him, and children ran barefoot through the grime and stagnant puddles, he felt oddly lighter because he knew the truth. For the first time since being taken in by the Strong family, he felt worthy of their respect, if not their trust.
He collected the rangy chestnut from the livery where he’d temporarily left it, and turned its head towards Conrad Heinkel’s refinery.
Conrad was in a reflective mood when he got there. ‘I wanted to speak to you on a very serious matter,’ he said over his shoulder as he led Tom into his office.
‘Our scheme’s worked, hasn’t it?’ said Tom, slumping into one of the comfortable armchairs with which Conrad thought an office should be furnished.
‘Oh yes,’ said Conrad, nodding affably over the bowl of his burning pipe. ‘The sugar from Barbados has been successfully routed by way of the other refiners and into my yard. And beet from the continent is also keeping me running at close to full capacity.’ He beamed gratefully. ‘I thank you, Tom. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.’
Tom grinned. ‘If Emmanuel knew I was involved, he’d shoot me.’
‘Let us hope not,’ said Conrad. His smile diminished as his expression turned serious. And was that a bashful blush on his big, friendly face? Tom wondered what it was Conrad believed to be more serious than sugar.
‘Blanche,’ said Conrad. ‘She is of good family?’
Tom controlled his shock. Hopefully it did not register on his face.
‘I do not know,’ he lied.
‘No matter,’ said Conrad with a careless twitch of his pipe. ‘She is very nice to look at, very nice to people, and very nice to my children. Do you think that if I asked her to marry me, she would accept?’
Tom felt his stomach churn. Without saying so, Blanche had more or less turned him down, simply because her head was bewitched by the vision of an evening gone.
‘I think that is something you have to find out for yourself,’ Tom answered.
Conrad nodded resignedly. ‘I suppose you are right. But you know, Tom, I can order men to do this and that out there in that refinery, but when it comes to asking a woman a question like that, my wits become soup and I am a boy again, a stupid, bashful boy.’
‘You’re too big to be a boy, Conrad.’
It was all Tom could think to say. He was still smarting from seeing Blanche with Nelson in the woods near the village. And now here was another man who wanted her.
They talked some more about how best to fend off Emmanuel Strong and his designs on sugar refining. Tom told Conrad to be alert. Conrad told Tom to watch his back. Emmanuel burned with ambition, and would destroy anyone to get what he wanted.
He would have gone straight back to Marstone Court, but as he drew close to Corn Street, he spotted Aggie Pike waving her hands at him furiously.
Easing his horse through the throng of market stalls and corn dealers, he dismounted and asked her what she wanted.
Aggie looked worried. ‘Have you seen Sally?’
‘Not for a few days.’
It was true, and he’d thought it strange. A few days, and Sally would have been after some money. But he hadn’t seen her.
‘She owed me some money. She’d arranged to pay me.’
Ah, thought Tom. Besides being a bargee, a fence and an arm-wrestler, Aggie was also a money lender. Now Tom knew where his money had been going.
Aggie explained. ‘I should ’ave known better than to let ’er ’ave the money. But it was Stoke!’ She spat at the effort of having to say his name. ‘Bastard!’ she swore, then genuflected.
God, thought Tom, she’s a Catholic.
‘She weren’t up to working the streets an’ all, but Stoke was after her for the money. She borrowed it off me to give to ’im so ’e’d think she was working, though ’course, she weren’t. How could she the state she’s in? Trouble is, last time she said she was too ill to work, ’e beat ’er black and blue.’ Aggie laid a hand on his arm. ‘I wouldn’t ’a
ve taken the money off ’er, Tom. Wouldn’t ’ave lent it ’er in the first place, but she kept on, and I didn’t want to see ’er hurt again. And I didn’t ’ave too much money anyways. But she promised to be here, and Sally always keeps a promise.’
He couldn’t ignore the worry in Aggie’s well-creased face. He’d meant to get back at Marstone Court in time to see Jeb before he fell asleep. He visited him at the same time in the evening and hated missing, knowing Jeb looked forward to his company, but in the circumstances…
Sally was the modern-day equivalent of his own mother, and Clarence was the boy he’d once been. He had to know what had happened to her.
His first port of call was Cuthbert Stoke.
By the time he got to the Fourteen Stars, night was drawing in and a thick mist was rolling in off the river.
‘Take care of my horse,’ he said, passing the reins to a stable lad. ‘A good rub down, a mound of hay and only a handful of oats.’
The stable lad, a cheeky chap with ginger hair and a sunburst of freckles across his nose, looked surprised. ‘Is that all he can have?’
Despite his grim mood, Tom shook a warning finger. ‘Any more than that and he’ll be mounting every filly in the stable.’
The boy grinned. ‘We ain’t got no fillies, only old mares.’
Tom grinned back and flicked the boy a coin. ‘Same in these stables as inside the Fourteen Stars then,’ he said and disappeared.
The air inside the tavern was as thick with smoke as ever, though unlike the Druid Arms, it was uncut with the mouth-watering odour of fresh fish smoking and sizzling.
Stoke spotted him through the milky haze and sidled over, thought about sitting himself on the bench next to him, but stopped when he saw the unwelcome look on Tom’s face. He made a big show of lighting his pipe and nodding at a few of the regulars while studying Tom, trying to gauge his mood and considering whether he could take advantage. Tom wasn’t usually that easy to read, but tonight something bordering on anger – frustration perhaps – was obvious.
Although his gaze appeared to be elsewhere, Tom knew that Stoke had noticed his frame of mind and would have presumed he was in a fighting mood. Vengeful would have been a better description, but Tom wasn’t letting on. Hitting Stoke in retribution for beating Sally was an option he discarded. Best, he decided, to hurt Stoke where it hurt most – his purse.
Stoke acted amiably. He always did when he wanted something. ‘Care for another match? I’ve got a bloke come up from Devon called Simmons. Folks down that way tell me he’s a battler.’
Tom barely glanced at him. ‘How about tonight?’
Stoke looked surprised but knew Tom was serious because he had been about to down his drink and had stopped the moment a fight was mentioned. Unlike some bare-knuckle fighters, Tom drank little before a fight. ‘Blimey! Who’s upset you then?’
‘Never you mind.’
Stoke knew better than to push it. Tom’s scowl was enough to turn porter to vinegar.
‘Mind if I take a pew?’ Stoke asked, taking a three-legged stool from beneath the table, which meant he was close but not too close.
Tom said nothing.
‘A fight’s already been arranged for tonight, but I think I can fit you in if you don’t mind hanging around. Rough sort, mind. Comes in with the blokes he works with. Hard drinkers, the lot of them.’
Tom nodded and fingered the tot of rum, leaving marks on the pewter tankard. The latter were used for everything because the Fourteen Stars owned few glasses. Most had ended up in bits in the sawdust on the floor.
‘Do it.’
Tom pushed his drink to one side. If there was a fight in the offing, he needed a clear head.
Stoke eyed him warily before asking his next question. ‘Seen Sally lately?’
Surprised by the question, Tom shook his head, reluctant to look into Stoke’s face and see the satisfaction of a pimp who knows where his next meal is coming from. Judging by what Aggie had told him, it seemed a strange question to ask, implying, as it did, that Stoke hadn’t seen Sally either, though it might not necessarily be the truth.
Stoke pulled a well-polished watch of sterling silver from his waistcoat pocket. ‘You’ll see her soon, no doubt. I told her to be up and about early. Just ’cos she’s sick ain’t no reason to—’
It was the worst thing Stoke could have said. Tom grabbed him by the lapels of his coat, causing the watch to swing from its chain and hit the table. Stoke almost choked.
‘Let her go, Stoke. Can’t you see the woman’s dying?’
‘I know that.’ Stoke pawed at Tom’s hands. ‘But you can’t stop her, Tom.’
Tom held on. The low hum of conversation, bawdy laughter and drunken shouting ceased. Everyone there watched, waiting with baited breath to see if Cuthbert Stoke was at long last about to receive what he justly deserved.
‘Let her be!’ Tom snarled, holding Stoke’s face close to his so that their noses almost touched and the spittle of Tom’s anger sprayed Stoke’s face.
Stoke played the only winning card he could think of and trusted he’d correctly assessed Tom’s mood. ‘Tom, think. You likes fighting. She likes what she does.’ He shook his head, his eyes never leaving Tom’s face. ‘God knows you’ve tried, Tom. God knows you have.’
In his heart of hearts, Tom knew Stoke was speaking the truth. The only thing you couldn’t save Sally from was herself, but Stoke was also to blame. Tom forced himself to calm down. He’d have him yet. Slowly, he relinquished his hold.
The one-time ostler, sometime fence, and part-time pimp, rubbed at his neck and put his watch back into his waistcoat. The sound within the Fourteen Stars returned to a grumbling hum. Stoke took a deep breath, glad he could still do so and wondering just how close he’d come to receiving a knock-out blow from Tom Strong’s powerful right fist.
Stoke collected his wits and his words. ‘She won’t go quietly, will our Sally. Thinks she’s indispensable, that one. So long as she thinks she’s useful, she’ll keep going till she drops and nothing I says is going to change that. So let her be. She was born a whore and she’ll die a whore.’
Tom smashed his fist down on the table.
Stoke sent the stool falling backwards as he leapt clear. ‘Hitting me won’t make things any different,’ he said.
Tom thought about it. He was right. Squashing Stoke’s nose all over his face would do little good, in fact, Sally, the silly cow, would probably come over all sympathetic for the nasty little toad.
Stokes licked his flaccid lips, which were already wet and shiny. ‘You do this fight tonight and we split the purse sixty forty. The man’s no pushover mind. Body like a bull and hands like shovels. Just as you like ’em. I’ve got a good crowd coming in. There they were, swinging axes and shovels into the ground on the other side of town, and all I had to do was offer them one free drink. What do you say?’
Tom said yes.
The smell of horse manure and urine was as strong as ever in the neighbouring building that housed Bennetts Carriers and the fights. As before, a ring had been constructed from hay bales. Cuthbert Stoke was strutting around with a smile on his face, a pipe in his mouth and a bag of coins in his fist.
‘Any more bets?’ he was shouting.
Tom pushed his way through the press of men, most of whom were complete strangers to him. Just before the fight was set to begin, a swarm of ugly men with hard faces, sweat-soaked kerchiefs around thick necks, and clothes that reeked of mud and stale body fluids flooded like a sea of rocks into the Fourteen Stars.
Stoke pointed out the other pairs that were fighting.
Tom weighed them up. ‘I take it my opponent is one of this ugly-looking crew. What Irish bog did you get them from?’
Stoke took it as a huge joke and roared with laughter. He leaned close, his voice dropping to little more than a whisper. ‘Temple Meads Meadows, if you must know. They’re building the station and laying the track for Mr Brunel’s wonderful railway. And not all of them are
from Ireland.’
Tom frowned. The men’s origins were of no importance. It was the fact that they were working at Temple Meads Meadows that stuck in his mind. This was the second time in the last few days he’d heard it mentioned. Temple Meads Meadows was no more than a mile or so from the berth of the Miriam Strong. Was there a connection? And if so, who was behind it all?
As the first fight got under way, bets and encouragements were shouted in a variety of accents, some he’d never heard before. Stoke nudged his arm. ‘They’re from Kingswood,’ he said. ‘Hard to know what they’m on about, eh, Tom? Even Taff Jones over there don’t understand what they’re saying and he’s Welsh!’
Stoke seemed to find this extremely funny and slapped his sides. Tom peeled off his shirt and used it to rub away the film of sweat from off his chest.
There were many coalmines at Kingswood and the surrounding areas, but there was none at Temple Meads Meadows. It was too close to the river and these men were building and laying track for a method of travel that was rumoured would replace the mail coach and the canals in no time at all. And Mr Brunel’s Great Western had already proved that crossing the Atlantic was far quicker by steam than by sail. A link between the track-laying and someone wanting the Miriam Strong’s berth clicked in his mind…
Stoke was taking bets at a rate of knots, telling everyone that Tom was drinking too much to win and the big bruiser navvy would flatten him for sure. The navvy had got himself quite a reputation, but Stoke was secretly in no doubt that Tom would flatten him and therefore, Stoke would be in the money.
Aggie, the woman who plied her barge up and down the Severn, nodded a swift greeting before squatting herself next to Tom. Her clothes stunk of coal dust. Bad breath caused by her rotting teeth wafted up Tom’s nostrils when she leaned close to his ear and said, ‘I reckon Stoke’s done fer Sally. What do you think?’
Tom turned cold. ‘I can’t say,’ he said, shocked. Stoke had certainly beaten Sally, but would he have killed her? He couldn’t believe that.
Disappointed by his response, Aggie moved away. Tom concentrated on the fights.