A Close Run Thing

by David Donachie

  Invited to take a chair, Emily complied, declining the offer of refreshment, to put forward her request, which had a confused look sweep across the somewhat corpulent face.

  ‘Odd, ma’am, very odd. Gherson has, this very morning, been moved to the State House and a private cell.’

  ‘On whose cognisance, pray?’ was the shocked reply.

  ‘Mr Walter Hodgson.’

  ‘That name does not register.’

  ‘It would, Mrs Barclay, if you were unfortunate enough to know much of this place. Mr Hodgson is a thief-taker of some repute. We have been in receipt of many of those he has laid hands on over the years.’

  In the mass of thoughts racing through Emily’s mind, there was one obvious fact: she had been outplayed. If someone else was paying for a private cell, it was to ensure Gherson remained silent and that could only have been facilitated by Edward Druce. If she’d harboured any doubts there were frauds being committed, and she had few, they were now laid to rest.

  ‘A wealthy man, Mr Hodgson?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. He is a fellow for hire, so I suspect he is acting on behalf of another, someone who does not wish his name to be attached to the request.’

  ‘An unusual act?’

  ‘Not so. When someone of high standing is apprehended, we often receive multiple applications for favoured treatment, not that I would put Gherson in that category. But he must have friends, and clearly you are one of them.’

  The temptation to vehemently deny such a thing had to be suppressed. Also to be ignored was the arching of a suggestive eyebrow, a hint from the governor as to her motives. He must think she had feelings for Gherson, being an attractive woman and him a good-looking cove when brushed up. What she said next did nothing to dent that suggestion.

  ‘Would it be possible to call upon him?’

  The grin, one which implied Crossley had guessed right, was infuriating. ‘I can send a request, if you so wish it.’

  ‘I do.’

  A bell was rung, a servant appeared and once instructed, he departed. This left Emily in the company of a man about whom she knew nothing, which was mutual. The wife, more so the widow of a naval officer, did not move in the kind of social circles peopled by the likes of Crossley. In fact, Emily was acutely aware that she did not move in any such circles at all, if you excluded the provincial gatherings of Somerset.

  ‘Your husband chose not to accompany you, ma’am?’ Emily suspected this was put forward as a way of fishing for information on her relationship with Gherson.

  ‘My husband, Captain Barclay, is no longer with us. He was killed on the quarterdeck of his man-o’-war, some months past.’

  ‘The name registers. He was in command of HMS Semele?’ A nod. The next question was posed in the manner of a person lost for something meaningful to say. ‘You reside in London, Mrs Barclay?’

  ‘No, my home is in Frome, but I am lucky enough to have as a friend the owner of a house in Harley Street and I have the use of a suite of rooms. You may have heard of him. Heinrich Lutyens?’

  ‘The physician fellow?’ came with palpable relief, it giving common ground. ‘Heard great things about him and, should I ever need a medical man, I might call upon him.’ A fist thumped the substantial chest. ‘Thank the Lord my health is robust.’

  ‘Tell me more of this Mr Hodgson.’

  ‘What’s to say? He’s good at his work, though I must admit he has fallen away from it in the last couple of years. Used to bring in villains regular, but not recently.’

  ‘Was it he who apprehended Gherson?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’ The brow furrowed in thought. ‘It was the magistrate at Bow Street who sent him to us, I recall.’

  ‘A good man, an honest man?’

  The question threw the governor slightly, an indication that he did not think of Hodgson, very much his social inferior, in that way, so the response was tentative. ‘I would say so, yes. But then our relationship is entirely a professional one, if you can term his activities so.’

  A knock and the door opened, to tell Emily that the inmate Gherson would be happy to see her in ten minutes.

  ‘Sir Jerrold, I am keeping you from your duties.’

  ‘Nonsense, Mrs Barclay,’ he lied, with a facility borne of long practice. ‘Pray tell me about the part of the world from which you hail, for I do not know it at all. Good hunting country, is it?’

  Emily knew good manners when she encountered them, but she obliged nevertheless.

  If Gherson’s frame was diminished by a lack of decent food, the clothes he now wore were elegant enough to disguise the fact. Gone too was the straggly beard; he was clean-shaven and his hair had been dressed as of old. In terms of arrogance he was also fully restored, judging by the familiar smirk that graced his features.

  ‘How nice it is to receive you in proper surroundings.’

  The cell was not spacious and neither was it attractive, consisting, as it did, of bare and whitewashed brick walls. But the cot looked comfortable and was well supplied with bedding. There was a table, a comfortable winged armchair, as well as another high-backed seat for visitors, while the large, barred window let in a decent amount of daylight.

  ‘You find me early in my occupation, but there are some hangings on order to break up the misery of the brick.’

  The look accompanying that seemed to send a message, to drive home the point, to tell her she could have provided all this but had been too slow. It needled her, so the response was pointed.

  ‘I did not call to discuss your furnishing requirements.’

  ‘Can I not offer you the armchair?’

  ‘You may offer me the services you said you’d provide.’

  ‘Alas,’ Gherson said. The raised hands opened in a gesture, palms on view, this added to a glance up at the arched ceiling, a pointed reference to his new circumstances.

  ‘I came this morning to bespeak for you this very accommodation.’

  ‘What a quandary I’m in, with two supplicants bidding for that which I know.’

  ‘My aim is to expose it as fraudulent.’

  ‘While mine is to extract maximum value from what resides in here.’ He tapped the side of his head with a finger, this as a lecherous sneer filled his face. ‘I am now wondering what it is you can offer me that would bend me to your cause.’

  The lips were wetted and there was clear hunger in his eyes. How many times had she crushed this slug for the very suggestion he was advancing now, the notion that his charms were so overpowering she must, as others had done, succumb to his carnal desires? It took a steel resolve not to slap him down once more.

  ‘The chance to right the wrongs you have perpetrated might serve.’

  ‘I have had enough of thin gruel.’ The voice altered, to become contemptuous. ‘You have scorned me in the past. If you want my aid now, you will have to pay for it with your virtue. That is, if you have any left, after you betrayed your husband with Pearce to the point of bearing his bastard.’

  ‘Odd, is it not,’ Emily replied, in a very calm voice. ‘Betraying my husband is the only thing we have in common.’

  He made to move in on her, the glint in his eye that of a man who would not be denied. Her scream stopped him dead and had him retreat several paces, as the door opened and an alarmed warder appeared.

  ‘Heinrich,’ Emily insisted. ‘There was really nothing to be concerned about. It would hardly aid his cause to have my rape added to his tariff, a crime for which you can also hang.’

  ‘You seek to make light of it, but I see nothing amusing. If John finds out, and for God’s sake keep it from him, he’ll break into Newgate and string Gherson up with his own hands.’

  ‘If I visit him again, I could perhaps take one of your footmen as a guard.’

  ‘Surely you will not expose yourself to a repeat of what just happened?’

  ‘I was joking. There is nothing for me in Newgate. Now I must pen a pair of notes, one confirming my request that Davidson, John
’s prize agent, takes over the management of my affairs. A second must go to Ommaney and Druce demanding they release my papers to him immediately.’

  Emily did not mention the third missive. A request to Crossley had produced an address for this mysterious Mr Hodgson.

  The limner hired by Walter Hodgson was a man he saw as a competent painter of shop and tavern signs, which did not ask that human features be of too accurate dimensions, or that the sign for a trade aspire to high art. His customers got what they paid for: the head and chest of the latest naval hero, a royal sibling or a newly created duke. He could also do a fair representation of the animal kingdom, as well as spreading oak trees. It was thus surprising the drawings he was being given now, in charcoal, were quite detailed and would have stood as decent sketches on which to begin a portrait.

  ‘You missed your vocation, Louis. Why do you not do portraits in oils?’

  ‘If I were paid for a true likeness, I can do them, but the purse of my custom does not extend to such things.’

  It would have been churlish to point out that Louis Beleau was the author of his own travails, he being a slave to gin. Of Huguenot descent, but fully English, given his forbears had fled France several generations past, he would very likely take Hodgson’s fee and head straight for a gin shop to purchase a flagon. He was sat now, hands clasped tight together, in order that their habitual shaking was concealed, a trembling that made it remarkable he could paint or draw at all. Yet he had done so with the charcoal.

  The two sketched faces did not register, which had dashed one hope. As a man who flirted with the criminals of the city, Hodgson had harboured a vague anticipation that anything approaching a resemblance would trigger a memory. Daisy had said the pair were not much for gaiety and this was reflected in the grim expression Beleau had produced on her instruction. He could also see the similarity she had alluded to; they looked like an older and younger brother, the latter with a deep scar on his cheek.

  ‘Lady Barrington asked that I tell you, she’s done as asked and not to seek more.’

  If that got a nod, it was only because her words were of no account. Further questioning, if there was to be any, would not come from Hodgson, but from the magistrate at Bow Street and she’d decline to answer him at her peril. The old Blind Beak might have been gone these last two decades or more, but Sir John Fielding had set up more than just his Runners to curtail crime. His successors were required to investigate as well as to pass judgement, not that they showed much skill in the former.

  ‘Are these to be printed off, Mr Hodgson?’

  ‘No idea, Louis, but rest assured, I’ll pay extra if they are.’

  ‘They’ll fly out by the hundred, given they relate to such a prominent crime.’

  Hodgson smiled: Beleau was trying to extract as much value from his work as he could and, ideally, he would like to be in receipt of it now. ‘Which will be reflected in what I will pay you.’

  ‘Except …’ was the diffident response.

  ‘Except you have debts?’

  ‘For paper and paints, to those who’re not beyond the use of the horsewhip.’

  Hodgson reckoned the need for gin to be a more likely craving. If he had been paying, he would have reacted negatively. But the bill would be met by Ommaney and Druce and they had never questioned any of his previous demands. Added to that, it did no harm for a man in Hodgson’s profession to spread a little goodwill where he could, especially at another’s expense. So half a guinea was paid for the drawings, instead of four shillings, but there was more required.

  ‘For that sum, Louis, I want you to do a quick sketch of yourself and someone else you know well. Not me.’

  The ‘whatever for?’ was on his lips, but there it stayed. Hodgson watched as the limner opened his portfolio case. The strokes were quick and economical, what was required being provided with commendable speed.

  ‘Myself and the Barrington doorman.’

  Hodgson nodded in recognition of the latter, seeing it as suitable for his purpose. He then referred to the two originals. ‘Mark these faces, Louis: if you clap eyes on them on your wanderings, I want to be told.’

  With the limner gone, Hodgson was left wondering what all this would lead to. The drawings Louis had made from Daisy’s description had him staring at a pair of right villainous-looking coves, but that counted for nothing. He was not one to subscribe to the notion of a criminal face; you only had to recall Gherson to dismiss the very notion.

  Nor did what he had been told the previous night imply anything, other than a possibility. There were people he had to show these drawings to, Gherson being one, though he would need to employ care there. Another was Edward Druce – and what would he make of them and the reasons they had been composed? He would do Gherson this very day and Druce once he had been given permission to call: even if he had been warm on their last meeting, just dropping in was not to be considered.

  Gherson was eating a large beefsteak and washing it down with a good wine, obviously content to live like a prince when he was free from the expense. The initial experience of meeting him had set the tone for Hodgson’s approach, which was strictly professional. This sod knew he was the messenger. If the name Druce had not been mentioned, there was no mystery between them as to where the funds were coming from.

  Hodgson took him through his tale again, asking him to describe the fellows he claimed had clubbed him, not that his replies were entirely satisfactory. Asked over and over again, getting shirty at the repetition, his descriptions varied, which Hodgson put down to him being so drunk he barely recalled anything with clarity.

  The time came to produce the first image, this taken from a hard-bound folder, which had drawn Gherson’s eye on entry, an object that rendered him deeply curious. Extraction was executed with a slow and deliberate movement, the image slid across his table.

  ‘Do you recognise the face?’

  ‘Barrington’s doorman,’ was the firm reply. ‘Surely you don’t reckon him to be my assailant?’

  ‘It is ever my way, Gherson, never to assume anything. This one?’

  The image he was looking at was quite clearly the older of the pair, as described by Daisy, a man with an angry and choleric air about him, not aided by a heavily pockmarked face, which could be put down to the impression he had made on the bagnio owner: even the most evil cove could smile. Hatless, his hair was worn long and curled, framing the face.

  ‘Who is he?’

  Hodgson shook his head at such a stupid question. ‘Do you recognise him?’

  The pause was long as Gherson stared at the second drawing. Eventually fingertips went to his forehead to rub hard in frustration. ‘There is a vague recollection …’

  ‘This one,’ Hodgson said firmly, pushing the drawing of Louis Belau under Gherson’s nose.

  The response was immediate and positive. ‘Now this fellow looks likely. Yes, I see him now, coming through the door, marlin spike raised …’

  ‘Marlin spike?’ Hodgson interrupted. ‘You’re sure it was that with which they clubbed you?’

  The lips curled and the tilted nose lifted enough to imply stupidity in the query.

  ‘Allow that I have been a sailor and a damn fine one! God only knows the number of times I have acted to save the ship I was on with my skills.’

  And I’m the Ruler of Tartary, Hodgson thought. The notion of Gherson being an efficient sailor jarred as much as his being a butcher, but he did reckon the fact of a marlin spike significant. The fourth drawing was produced, to a query as to why they were so numerous, if he had only been assaulted by two people.

  ‘Tell me how an unconscious fellow knows how many men crashed into the room?’

  ‘I sense you accept that I’m innocent.’

  The way that was delivered troubled Hodgson, it was too confident. To say either yes or no was not wise, but it was a question that required an answer, given the expression of certainty, which to his mind should have been hope, on Gherson’s face.


  ‘I am prepared to allow no more than you may be telling the truth.’

  ‘Damn you, may be is not good enough. Do I have to remind you of the factor of time?’

  The reply was hard. ‘You can choose to damn me, Gherson, then you will swing without my help.’

  ‘Druce’s help!’

  Hodgson made a point of looking around the cell. ‘I don’t see him here, do you?’

  Gherson got the point and the confident look evaporated; Druce may be funding Hodgson, but it was being done at arm’s length. His life was in the hands of the man before him. The subsequent apology was all grovel.

  ‘Forgive me, I beg you, but …’

  Only professional experience stopped Hodgson from telling him where to poke his regrets. There was a job to do and liking or disliking the sod was irrelevant.

  ‘Look at these faces again.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Nothing, not even a bright sunny day, could make the distant sight of the Isle of Sheppey look welcoming when seen from the crest of Detling Hill. It consisted of flat marshland, surrounded by grey waters, the narrow Swale and the broad River Thames. Sheppey was home to cattle and sheep, plus any number of nefarious activities, many to do with the building and maintenance of the vessels of the Royal Navy.

  It was rumoured that, for every ship built or refitted in the local dockyards, a sound wooden house was constructed on the island, and that took no account of the purloining of stores. The inhabitants were known, and with good cause, to be wary of strangers, even if they were a common occurrence. Sheerness, his destination, sat at the north-west point of the island, forming part of the entrance to the River Medway, known to the navy as the anchorage of the Nore.

  For many years the waters off Chatham and Rochester had been the main base for Britain’s ‘wooden walls’, the enemy to protect against being the mighty fleets of the Dutch Republic. Though they had never languished, they had given way to Portsmouth and its southern English equivalents, Plymouth and Falmouth, this to keep an eye on the main current threat to Britain, which came from the base of the French fleet at Brest.