‘I suggest, Mr Codge, that we are required to come to some arrangement.’
‘We are that.’
‘You have a sum in mind, I take it?’
‘A high one, yes, for it would not do to—’
‘Please do not trouble me with facts of which I am already aware. I tried to have you taken up but failed, while you have discovered certain things that would cause me discomfort should they be investigated. That demands from me that I pay for your silence, yes?’
‘Aye, and—’
He got no further. ‘Now, I think for you to demand of me a large sum of money would not be wise. The possession of such, given your background, would raise suspicions and that might lead to a risk of official curiosity leading to disclosure, which would in turn affect me. In short, the Bow Street Runners know you too well.’
‘I’m no blabberer.’
‘No one is saying you are, but forgive me if I avoid the risk, and what if your sudden prosperity creates jealousy amongst those with whom you associate?’ Codge was not often confused, but he was thrown now; this was not going as he had expected. ‘So I suggest instead a regular stipend, to be collected per calendar month, of say, forty guineas. That is a sum I can meet without damaging my business interests, which I would point out we are now both dependent on, and also one which, while keeping you in some comfort, could also come from your nefarious activities.’
‘A hundred would be better.’
The lie was quick and delivered with speed, for such a sum would barely dent him.
‘A hundred might lead to my bankruptcy and a complete cessation of payment. Forty is my price and any more means you must do your damnedest. Forty guineas to be collected by you personally, for I will not deal through intermediaries, on the first day of each month.’
The purse, produced from an open drawer at the alderman’s right hand, landed on the desk with a thud. ‘The first payment to be made this very night.’
There was a moment then when the alderman fixed his man, for to so produce that purse was like saying ‘I have thought this through and made my decision’. Would it anger Codge? It did, but he was sure that getting his man to start payment was the key; the sum could rise later as he increased pressure, so he shrugged and nodded.
Denby Carruthers was thinking that making two or three payments was worth it to find out the habits of this swine, for once his movements were known, he would then become vulnerable, sure as he was that his brother-in-law could provide the means to terminate the problem.
‘What about Gherson?’ Codge asked. ‘Happen I can find him for you.’
‘Leave Gherson to me!’
Codge shrugged, for in truth he was indifferent; if this man did not want to pay for disposal, he had no interest. ‘As you wish.’
‘Then I suggest you take your money and go.’
When he left, neither Codge nor his employer had any idea that Lavery was following him, it being an act that did not last long enough to register. The clerk only made an appearance of doing so to please Catherine Carruthers; as soon as both were out of sight of the house, he abandoned his pursuit and went to drink coffee. It was his misfortune that his master wanted him about a half an hour later.
‘Have you seen Lavery?’ Denby Carruthers demanded of his wife. ‘I have been ringing for an age.’
Knowing where he had gone she was hesitant, and in that state she could see suspicion grow in her husband’s eyes, which led to a blustering confession. ‘I hope you do not mind, I asked him to undertake an errand for me.’
‘What kind of errand?’
‘I need a repair made to a hat.’
‘At this time of night?’ She nodded fervently. ‘Then why not send your maid?’
‘It was she who damaged it and I was so cross I found I could not speak to her.’
‘It did not occur to you to dismiss her?’
‘It was a trifle, really, and she knows my ways.’ She tried to sound confident as she added, ‘Finding a maid you can trust is not easy.’
Nor is a wife, he thought, wondering what it was that made her words unreliable. The alderman stood for several seconds looking at her, she returning that with growing assurance, for he had not, as was too common, barked at her.
‘Please do not use my clerk without my permission, Catherine. If you require his services, be good enough to ask.’
‘I hope I have not got him into trouble.’
‘No,’ Denby Carruthers lied, for on his return Lavery would get a proper roasting.
Back in his own room, Denby Carruthers suspected there was something amiss but he had no idea what. After a while he went to a secret panel in the wall, which, once slid open, revealed his private strongbox, large and with a huge lock to which only he had the key. Opening it, he examined the leather bags of money, which represented only a small part of his wealth, most being lodged in various banks, given he did not trust any one not to fail. These were his ill-gotten gains, the money he made that he was disinclined to disclose even to his close associates.
It came from speculations that bordered on the edge of legality, the funding of dubious enterprises which sucked in dupes to part with their own gold and silver in the hope of massive profit – they always lost it all. It was a game he financed to take a share of the profits even if he did not need it. He could not help himself, a bag or two had to be lifted and weighed, for these were the riches he loved most, the profits no one knew about.
Access to muskets and the means to load them was essential, but the one key John Pearce did not leave with Dorling was that to the strongbox Dundas had sent to Lymington. Only Michael and he were in the cabin when it was opened before departure to reveal the pouches, each containing coins to approximately a hundred pounds value, some in the previous currency of France, gold louis d’or, others Austrian thalers and Dutch guilders.
The ties had been prepared in advance and these, knotted to two bags each, went over their shoulders, one pair for Pearce and a quartet of bags for the bigger stronger Irishman. Pearce had his pistol and sword, while Michael carried a musket and a powder-and-ball cartouche to go with his short hanger.
The naval coat and hat were necessary to John Pearce for the simple reason that, apart from the letters he carried identifying him as a British emissary, he needed to be seen at first glance to be whom he claimed, though it carried with it a risk: should they encounter anyone representing the Revolution, they might be shot at without even being challenged. Dundas’s communication, the list of potential contacts, he kept up his sleeve, so they could be discarded quickly, for they could only lead to certain execution.
Added to that they had canvas sacks packed with clothing and food for a journey of unknown duration, for in amongst everything Pearce had read from Dundas’s intelligence, the one thing missing amongst the many names of those to contact was any notion of where they might be. He did have a series of maps that ran from the Loire to La Rochelle, the notion being to head towards Challans, the nearest town of any size.
Rowed ashore, the ass he had bespoken the previous day was waiting for them, held by a man who would not let the lead rope out of his hand until it was required to accept payment, money which was examined by both eye and a hard bite of the teeth to ensure it was truly silver.
Trade completed, the canvas sacks were slung across the back of the beast, which required a solid belt on the rump to get it to move, and once in motion they made for the causeway, now visible and full of seawater puddles with the tide low, to farewells from the men who manned the boats.
‘Not one of whom,’ Michael opined, ‘does not rate you mad, and myself alongside you.’
The mainland landscape was little different from that of the island: flat, featureless, with long chest-high seagrasses waving on a breeze from the north, stronger now than the west wind of the day before. But that meant if it was chilling there were clear skies, which in turn provided a good view of where they were headed: along a road that had never been in good rep
air in monarchical times and was now worse from the lack of any of the locals seeking to maintain it.
Michael was singing softly, in his own tongue, leaving Pearce to let his mind wander, and naturally part of his ruminations were on Emily Barclay and how they would fashion a future together. They had talked of how she would occupy herself in his absence, with mention of perhaps some sea-bathing, for there were machines available in Lymington. Then there was the whole New Forest to explore, either on foot or horseback and, as a woman who took pleasure in embroidery, should the weather prove inclement she had that, as well as several books to read.
Perusing the Hampshire Chronicle at his Winchester home, Admiral Sir Berkley Sumner was always alert to anything that referred to his profession. The depth of his interest was acute due to his being what was known as a ‘yellow admiral’, a man who held the rank and took the pay without the benefit of being asked to hoist a flag. Convinced of his own suitability for high command, it annoyed him that all his efforts to secure a fleet or a profitable station had come to nought.
To those who had known him throughout his years of service, and like many he had begun life at sea as a mere boy, it was a saving grace that he had not been entrusted with anything of importance, not even a shore command, for Sumner was held to be an absolute booby.
He had got his lieutenancy only because of the nature of the examining board. That body had been stuffed by his uncle, Captain – later Admiral – Sir George Rodney, with men who dare not refuse his nephew a pass mark, given they had relatives of their own needing a favour and he had likewise been made post under the same good fortune of family connection and client officers.
As time passed, he rose inexorably up the captains’ list until at the top, in a round of promotions to fill the shoes of those who had expired, he was promoted to Rear Admiral of the Blue, a rise which had continued until he was now a Rear Admiral of the White Squadron, albeit he had not been at sea for twenty years.
His passion for the service manifested itself in a close attention to anything that even remotely related to the navy. Thus, when he read in his Chronicle that a Lieutenant and Mrs Raynesford had taken up residence in the King’s Head inn in Lymington, he immediately reached for his copy of Steel’s Navy List to pin the date of the aforesaid officer’s appointment to the rank; that he did not find him drove him to his store of old papers to see when this fellow had been so recently gazetted, as he must have been if he was not on the list.
Not being able to find the name at all pricked him; he hated the notion of not knowing the minutiae of the service. Yet ignorance also presented opportunity and it was no trouble at all to dash off a note to Sir Phillip Stephens and ask for enlightenment, not forgetting to remind the secretary to the Admiralty that he was available, nay eager and skilled enough, to serve his King and country in any capacity commensurate with his rank and ability.
The two men who came to see Denby Carruthers at his favourite coffee house were brothers and strangers, but very different fellows indeed, the older one gruff and coarse both in countenance and manner, the younger-looking not only more refined but pale of face as if recovering from an illness; he also had a scar on his cheek so fresh the stitch marks were visible, an angry and straight red weal that had been made with something very sharp indeed.
Franklin Tolland would have left such an appointment longer if his brother had let him, for he did not feel fully recovered, having not long been treated for a sword wound at St Bart’s hospital by an odd-looking cove of a less than gentle surgeon called Lutyens, who had, thankfully, left the stitching of his face to a more tender colleague.
Forced to stay in London till Franklin recovered enough to move, Jahleel had been busy and was, as ever, impatient – they needed investment if they were to return to making a living for themselves and those who depended on them. The connection to this city worthy was through a mutual acquaintance, a fellow who knew that Denby Carruthers was not averse to wayward investments, and, to avoid anyone knowing about their presence, had arranged that the meeting be held away from his house.
Not that the associate ever knew the details of any transactions, but in the world of discreet ventures that was as it should be; the alderman had a sound grip on inside information of certain stocks on which he could make a profit for both without anyone ever knowing who had supplied the privileged information or the money to buy.
‘You will be aware, sir, that the price of certain goods has rocketed of late as supplies from France run out.’
‘I have a wife, Mr Tolland, who is very fond of Calais lace.’
‘We are in need of a ship,’ Jahleel growled, getting a frown from his more diplomatic brother. ‘And investment to fund our trade, which is beyond our own means.’
‘So I gather.’
Carruthers picked up the note he had received about this enterprise, hand-delivered and discreetly, as well as the information that these two brothers were very experienced in the smuggling trade, which begged the question, given it was massively profitable, as to why they needed him, a question he posed.
‘We had our cargo and our ship stolen from under our nose,’ Franklin wheezed.
‘Why tell him that?’ Jahleel barked, which had him get a sibling sign to keep his voice down.
‘Because I would have found out,’ Denby Carruthers said to Jahleel, before turning to his brother. ‘And what good enterprise begins with lies?’
‘Well?’ Jahleel demanded.
The alderman actually laughed, rocking back to do so which made an already flushed and heavily poxed face go very red. ‘Forgive me, but your directness I find amusing.’
‘It is,’ Franklin frowned, ‘a habit of my brother to speak as he finds, and it is not always the best course.’
‘Facts and figures are more important than manners, so let us turn to those.’
Here both brothers were on safe ground; they could price contraband to the farthing in both purchase and sale, quantity depending on the size of vessel that carried the cargo, albeit that had a round per-ton figure. Denby Carruthers listened with the attention of the man of business he was, able to make silent calculations of profit on investment without speaking or writing anything down.
This was a proper use for those secret bags of specie, risky certainly, but the profits were likely to be enormous. The Tollands would take no monies from the first cargo, only paying the men they led, and from then on it would be payment on a sliding scale until Denby Carruthers became a long-term partner on ten per cent of any smuggled cargo at no cost to him, by which time he would have at least doubled his investment.
Against that, these two were not honest men, but then neither in truth was he; his contact said the proposition was sound, with the caveat of interception by the excise. A risk, but a worthwhile one, and to protect himself he would keep ownership of the vessel provided, which would be claimed as stolen should these two be detained.
‘Please be sure,’ Carruthers said, ‘that I have the means to deal with those who seek to …’ he paused, that face had gone deep red again and the eyes were fierce ‘… shall we say “fail to meet their obligations”. I am adept at finding people if I am required to.’
‘Would those means extend to finding that sod that stole our ship?’ Franklin asked.
‘They might.’
‘Name’s Pearce,’ Jahleel barked, ‘and he wears a lieutenant’s coat of the King’s Navy.’
That surprised Denby Carruthers; he never thought naval officers as necessarily honest, but smuggling or the theft of contraband seemed extreme.
Franklin, for the first time of speaking, was as animated as his brother. ‘Find him, and you can have our second cargo on the same terms as the first.’
‘You want him that badly?’
The way Franklin Tolland gently fingered the scar on his face told the alderman why, and a look at Jahleel got a firm nod.
‘My brother-in-law has good contacts at the Admiralty, so I will ask. Pearce, you say?’
>
‘Given name John,’ Franklin hissed. ‘And a right bastard he is.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The route Pearce and Michael followed was dictated by water, for what they were traversing was sea marsh, with channels regularly inundated, which meant reed beds, salt pans, bird life, especially gulls to begin with, cackling ducks with that squawk which sounded so like a derisive laugh, but no sign of humans.
The road, if it could be called that, was a raised causeway that was never more than half a dozen feet above ground level; where disrepair was acute it disappeared entirely, obliging them to cross areas of grassland between the numerous rivulets and then look for a footbridge to get over.
These narrow wooden planks at least were numerous and looked to be well maintained, evidence of human activity – harvesting the salt, cutting reeds for roofing, no doubt grazing sheep with a high incidence of fishing too – so there was the feeling, impossible to avoid, that out there somewhere were a pair of eyes, maybe more than one, wondering about these two strangers, a possibility that had to be voiced.
‘From what I recall, John-boy, do the French not wear blue coats as well as the navy?’
‘Infantry and the National Guard, yes.’
‘Then from a distance you might be taken for one of them, which, if you’re telling me right about how bloody this fight is, would be likely to lead to you being shot at if those who have risen up have a gun.’
‘I am hoping that no one will just shoot me without asking questions first.’
‘Then, not being much for hope, you will not object if we halt for a moment while I load this musket. And I would suggest that pistol of yours might be better in your hand than a holster.’
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