Hanging Matter

by David Donachie

  “How many men have we got that can use a musket?” asked Harry.

  “About six,” replied Arthur.

  Harry looked at the party in the doorway. “That’s ten including us. I don’t think we’re going to get much sleep.”

  James yawned in an exaggerated way. “Damn it, Harry, is this fellow going to keep us awake every night?”

  “Will someone please tell me what is going on?”

  They all turned to see Anne, in her nightdress, at the bottom of the stairs. Arthur was the first to respond.

  “Madam,” he cried. “How dare you appear in public in your shift. Return to your room this instant.”

  They found Tite, with a nasty lump on his head, still unconscious on the path and carried him back to the house. It was only when they’d revived him and they were sure the house was secure that James mentioned Wentworth.

  “I cannot believe he has slept through the entire thing,” said Harry.

  “He managed to slumber his way through the commotion aboard the Planet,” James replied. “One can only assume his dreams are so boring that they keep him comatose.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ARTHUR HAD SPENT most of the night writing letters: to the Lord Lieutenant of the County, the colonel in command of the local Fencibles, Mr Magistrate Temple in Deal, plus another strongly worded missive to Lord Chancellor Thurlow. All detailed the events of the previous 48 hours, deplored the idea that such things could happen in a law-abiding nation, called for protection, and insisted on some form of law enforcement. They were sent off at first light, along with a note to Goodnestone regretting that their dinner would, yet again, have to be postponed. This was no time for social gatherings. All the neighbours with horses came together to scour the area for any sign of the men who’d attacked Cheyne.

  The servants, well wrapped against the continuing cold, were set to watch the approaches to the house while the horsemen rode out. But try as they might they could find no trace of the party who’d come so far inland in search of their quarry. Nor could Harry advance a convincing reason why this had happened, unless their mere presence as witnesses to the murder of Bertles and his crew made them a target. If that was the case it would surely presage another attack; a worrying prospect, for it would entail a long period during which everyone would need to be alert.

  There was no way that their leader could know that the passengers who’d been aboard the Planet had little to tell those in authority, besides a poor physical description, and the fact that he had an unusually high-pitched voice. And Harry’s neighbours, for all their sympathy, soon grew impatient when their enquiries produced neither the name of a man, nor a ship, nor whence they’d come. In these troubled times, with the likes of Tom Paine spreading his venom from across the Channel, rumours abounded throughout the country of seditious societies, groups of the lower orders bent on revolution, who would fire a rich man’s house to further their cause. Everyone had heard of such a case, though no one had witnessed it.

  Surely all this talk of a party of armed sailors was so much stuff? And the numbers beggared belief. It wasn’t far from that to the first hint that the whole affair was the figment of an overheated imagination. What had started as an enthusiastic hunt soon lost its impetus, with an increasing number of Harry’s neighbours begging off to return to running their own properties. Any evidence of the strangers’ presence would have kept them at it. But it was as though the men had never existed. No one had seen them come or go. Finally Harry was forced to call off the chase, sure that they were back aboard ship nursing many a wound, and with the hope that they’d convinced themselves the game wasn’t worth the candle.

  “Perhaps the fellow now has a gravel voice, Harry,” said James, attempting to lift his brother’s obvious gloom.

  “He has a name, James. With his voice and appearance so singular, I cannot believe his identity is not known.”

  “Perhaps Naomi Smith will know of him. I hear she has some contact with smugglers.”

  Harry shook his head violently. “I told you. He’s not from around these parts. And as for Naomi, the rumours of her being involved in smuggling are as exaggerated as most other things about the lady.”

  “You would know better than I,” replied James wickedly. “But with respect, brother, those two statements don’t add up.”

  “Why not?”

  “You say that he’s well known with the same assurance as you say he’s not a local man. If the latter is true, perhaps his identity is as much a mystery to others as it is to us.”

  “He knew Bertles by name,” said Harry.

  “You heard the way he gained information, Harry. I doubt that he’d have any difficulty extracting a name.”

  Harry turned away, leaning on the ledgers that would take up most of the rest of the day. There were ways that he could find out if he was right, but they were not something he could discuss with his brother. The attitude didn’t fool James one little bit.

  “As long as you yourself do not step outside the law, Harry, in order to bring this fellow to book …”

  Harry spun round, trying to look innocent. “Me?”

  The three men had been together a long time and it was a sad parting when James left, taking Pender with him. The only silver lining to that cloud was Wentworth’s departure. Their unwanted guest had declined to assist in the search, and complained loudly about the lack of official interest while all the time declaring that he would bring the villains to justice. Even Arthur had lost patience with the man, enquiring sharply how he intended to do this with his backside stuck to an armchair.

  Harry, despite the temptations of his own inclinations, now had to undertake those duties which fell to him as a substantial landowner, and visit his tenants, as much to thank them for their recent assistance as to look over their property, a task made more onerous by Arthur’s constant presence. Regardless of how well he’d behaved on the night of the attack, the events preceding the assault still rankled. If his brother-in-law noticed his reserve, he gave no indication, no doubt putting it down to Harry’s hatred of the task. So what little conversation ensued tended towards a list of the agricultural improvements he’d made.

  These were long days, for his patrimony was not gathered in one compact piece, but spread around several parishes. Like most of the Kentish estates, it had grown over the centuries, through purchase and marriage, until one heir who’d put his love of cards before the care of his acres had been so reduced that he’d been forced to sell. The estate had not been in the family for long but his father had invested heavily, using his fortune well, so that now there was no part of the local agriculture in which Harry Ludlow wasn’t involved.

  Harry hated this, while Arthur revelled in it. Nothing pleased his brother-in-law more than the physical manifestations of the esteem in which he was held. There was, of course, the other side of his character, a genuine concern for innovation and people’s welfare, which stood counterbalance. But Harry Ludlow knew it was easy to play lord and master, to delude oneself into thinking that as the owner one had power. But he was also well aware that such respect was a fine veneer, for these people were of English yeoman stock. They’d show respect as long as it was forthcoming, but any attempt to impose on them would soon lead to trouble. They were not above telling their squire he was a fool to his face if his actions warranted it. Besides that, they had methods of showing disapproval that required no words. Harry couldn’t help but think it very much like a ship.

  He was on the way back to Cheyne Court from some of his property around Eastry when he passed along the ridge overlooking the cemetery where Tolly Smith was buried. He could see Naomi as she knelt, tending to a small grave just behind her husband’s. There were wild flowers aplenty around the huge Portland headstone, but the simplicity of the other grave, with its discreet stone and planted borders, was more appealing. Decorated covers kept off the frosts, and the winter pansies and snowdrops showed stark against the green of their stems.

 
; He would never have reined in his horse if Arthur had been with him, but his brother-in-law had stopped off to visit at the former royal palace at Eastry Court, partly to take coffee and partly to bask in the sudden notoriety of his brothers-in-law. He sat watching her for an age, wondering how someone like her could possibly strike up a relationship with a dry stick like Arthur. The memories of his time with her flooded in, warm and disturbing, which made him kick his horse hard. She turned at the sound of the hoofs, gazing after the retreating figure as he thundered along the ridge, at a full gallop. Then she returned to her labours, singing softly to herself as she pruned and plucked.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE DOGS’ barking alerted them first. Then the heavy sound of the horse’s hoofs, crunching on the wet gravel, drew everyone to the drive, not least Harry, sick of poring over the ledgers that had occupied him these last two days. The man on the horse clearly represented no danger, since he’d passed the men at the gate. He was well wrapped against the cold, and the drizzly rain streamed off his hat as well as his oilskin cloak. There was a tiny postillion platform added to the rear of his saddle, home to a small terrier, which seemed oblivious to the poor weather, content to sleep in spite of being soaked. The groom rushed out to take his horse and Tite was at the door ready to ask his business as the man dismounted.

  Harry, delighted by this diversion, was already in the hallway before the visitor was shown in. His face was still hidden by his hat and muffler. The partially open cloak, dripping water on to the oak floorboards, showed high black riding boots over leather breeches, plus the hint of a uniform coat. The dog, still somnolent, was cradled in the man’s arms. He swept off his hat with his free hand, then hauled his muffler free of his chin to reveal grey hair over a purple, craggy face.

  “He’s asking after you, Captain Ludlow,” said Tite, who, having allotted himself an excessive bandage to cover his wound, looked more like a Turkoman than a household servant. He was now frowning at the puddle which formed at the man’s feet.

  Harry looked at their visitor enquiringly, forcing him to introduce himself.

  “Joseph Braine, of the Preventative Service, enquiring after a Harry Ludlow, Esquire.”

  Tite gave him a sharp, unfriendly look, which was nothing to do with the way he said the Ludlow name, or the state of his hallway. He was not keen to welcome a member of that hated breed, a riding officer of the excise. Harry guessed that his visitor’s presence must pertain to Bertles and the Planet. What had happened in the Channel would be common gossip by now. Perhaps he’d find out at last who and what he was up against.

  “I am Harry Ludlow. May I suggest that you remove your outer garments, sir, and allow Tite to take them to dry?”

  Braine put down the sleeping dog and did as he was requested, though Tite’s reluctance to take the wet cloak was plain to see. He favoured the dog, which raised its head and looked lazily around, with an even less welcoming glare. His voice, for all the polite servant’s delivery, was as inhospitable as his countenance. “You may leave your animal by the kitchen fire if you choose.”

  “Sniff goes where I go,” growled Braine. “If needs be I can conduct my business here. It makes no odds.” He was obviously a man accustomed to being unwelcome, and Tite’s malevolent looks had no effect on him at all. “Happen I won’t be here long, anyhow.”

  “You may fetch your dog into the drawing-room, Mr Braine, if he’s not the type to lift his leg at any standing object. Otherwise, I must ask you to leave him outdoors.”

  Braine reached down and lifted the terrier up, scratching the animal behind the ears. “Never fear, he’s an indoor creature, if’n he’s cared for proper. Do you have a drop of brandy available, Mr Ludlow?”

  Harry tried to contain his surprise at such a want of manners. The excise officer noticed his reaction.

  “It’s not for me, Mr Ludlow. It be for Sniff here, an’ he’ll need a bowl to take it out of.”

  Tite was about to make objection, by the look on his face. Harry spoke to cut him off. “That will be all, Tite. See to the gentleman’s cloak and hat, and fetch me a bowl.”

  Tite’s glare was turned on him, before the servant remembered himself and fixed his angry features into an expression more becoming to his station. He shambled off, leaving neither of them in any doubt, with his whispered grumblings, what he thought of this “gentleman.” Harry turned and made for the drawing-room.

  The exciseman had sat down close to the fire by the time the bowl arrived. Harry put a drop of brandy in it and turned to hand the whole to Braine. The creature’s head was up and alert, and he was whining slightly as he struggled in his owner’s arms. Braine put the bowl on the floor, with the dog beside it, and Sniff licked it up greedily.

  “He seems partial to the brew, Mr Braine.”

  “He is that, sir. He goes mad when he’s deprived of it. Which he is when we expect to check for contraband.”

  Harry had heard of animals being debauched by drink so that their keen senses could be used to find hidden spirits. But it was the first time he’d actually seen one and it made him exceedingly curious. He knelt to the dog and scratched its ears. Harry clearly had the flavour of the spirit on his thumb, for the dog licked it greedily.

  “Don’t go doin’ that when he’s deprived, or he’ll take your finger off.” Braine scooped Sniff up and returned him to his lap.

  Harry stood up abruptly. “You’ve yet to tell me the purpose of your call.”

  “I doubt that’s truly necessary, Mr Ludlow.”

  Braine reached into his coat and pulled out a large piece of folded paper. The look on his host’s face threw him for a moment, for it was clear that Harry was completely mystified.

  Braine’s purple face took on an angry look, his thick grey eyebrows seeming to meet in the centre of his forehead. “We gets enough sticks and stones, sir, from all and sundry, not to mention the threats, without the likes of you taking to putting up posters.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr Braine. I don’t know what you’re on about.”

  Braine had the look of a man who felt he was being practised on as he held up the folded paper. His bitter tone made the dog growl slightly. “This, sir, which is not only damned lies and calumny, but as good as an invitation to riot.”

  “May I see what it is?” asked Harry, holding out his hand.

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know,” snapped Braine.

  His demeanour finally made Harry respond in kind, but he kept his voice under control.

  “I’m not much given to pretence, sir. Nor am I accustomed to being addressed so in my own drawing-room. Pray show me what you have brought.”

  Braine handed over the folded page. Harry took it from his hand and opened it out. It had a bold headline addressing it to the PEOPLE OF DEAL, as well as all RIGHT-THINKING ENGLISHMEN, followed by the offer of a ten-guinea REWARD. The type below varied in size as the writer sought to emphasise the main points.

  A call for the SEAS to be made SECURE, so that we may SAIL them without FEAR of MURDER and the DEPREDATIONS of the Excise. This very MORNING, Captain Tobias Bertles, a black-hearted VILLAIN, cast a party of INNOCENT souls adrift upon the open sea. This to avoid the exciseman. Said Bertles was then brought to, and horribly MURDERED with all his crew by a ship unknown. This SHIP pursued us, with DEADLY INTENT, to the very edge of the SANDS so as to DROWN our ability to WITNESS.

  FOUL deeds in very sight of the ENGLISH shore. Where were the EXCISE? The name of that SHIP, and its PURPOSE, are at present a MYSTERY. Any information leading to the detection of SAME to Mr Harry LUDLOW, of CHEYNE COURT in the parish of CHILLENDEN!

  Harry was shaking his head as he read it, for this poster explained a great deal. But this was hidden from Braine, whose voice sounded even angrier.

  “Well, sir, do you still pretend ignorance?”

  “I have never seen this before, Mr Braine, nor did I have a hand in composing it …”

  Harry got no chance to continue, for Braine exploded. He wa
s struggling to his feet, pushing the poster down to look Harry in the eye. “Never seen it, sir! A tract which near implicates the Preventative Service in a shipborne massacre.”

  Harry was still shocked at the mere existence of the poster, still trying to place it in the context of the attack on the house. So much so that his response was feeble. “Come, Mr Braine. I see no such words to imply that.”

  “Do you not, sir,” snapped Braine, standing now, his outstretched finger stabbing at the poster. “Well it is there and plain to see. Where were the excise, it says? As if to make out they were aboard Bertles’s ship!”

  The name of Bertles, spoken out loud, brought Harry back to the matter at hand. The events of that day flashed through his mind, especially the insufferably smug air that Wentworth had adopted just before they’d left Deal, not to mention his continuing assertions while he was a guest at Cheyne Court. His voice was as loud as Braine’s as he sought to calm the man.

  “You may sit down, sir, and receive an explanation, or you may fetch your cloak and hat and depart without one.” He waved the poster furiously. “I am not the author of this, and if you take leave to doubt my word again, I’ll make you answer for it over the barrel of a pistol.”