“How in the name of hell did this come about?” he croaked as he lifted her chin.
“Pour me some gin,” she said. The voice was thin and he could see in her slack-jawed mouth that all her teeth had gone, from disease or the blows she’d suffered.
He kept his voice low as he replied. “You need an apothecary, Jenny Pender, not a jar of gin.” But he knew that his wife was beyond any help that even a physician could give. If you lived close to the poor in King George’s England then you lived cheek by jowl with death. The sight of it was no stranger. It was not love that made his eyes sting, for they had fought when he’d been at home. It was the sight of a woman who’d once been his burden, a well-boned spitfire, reduced to a skeleton who was so far gone she could not control her bowels.
A groan behind him made him turn round. The children had fallen silent while he’d examined their mother, yet they whimpered again as the drunk started to recover, rolling on to his hands and knees with his head between his palms. Pender was over him in a flash, his club raised, with murder in his heart. A blind man could see that the pain his family had suffered had been inflicted by this sot on the floor.
“Who are you?” the man groaned, lifting his head to look at the figure silhouetted above him.
“That’s none of your concern,” growled Pender. “But you better be telling me about yourself, or you’ll get another swipe from this club.”
“Ferdy Wood,” said the man swiftly, one hand raised to ward off the expected blow.
“How come you’re here,” snapped Pender, his finger pointing towards his dying wife.
“God alone knows,” Wood pleaded, “for she’s no use to man nor beast.”
Pender’s club took him on the shoulder, causing the man to yell in pain. The words tumbled out of him, every one a whine, all accompanied with gestures to enforce the truth of what he was saying. But Pender was looking into the man’s eyes.
“I took her and her brats on, out of the kindness of my heart, after her man ran for a king’s bounty.”
Pender poked him with the club, knocking him on to his back. “Did you take the bounty, as well?”
“Weren’t it my due, mate, for offering protection?”
Pender’s voice was hard as stone, and the spittle of his hate hit his opponent square in the face as he railed at him. “I bet you took your due, you bastard. What did you do with my pay warrants, sell them half price to a crimp so that you could afford to drink?”
Wood’s eyes widened in terror. “Pay warrants? Christ Almighty, are you her man?”
The club was up above Pender’s head. “You should bless your luck that I’m not Christ Almighty, for I’d despatch you to the hell you deserve.”
“Ease off, mate!” cried Wood, his hands coming together in supplication. “I took her in and cared for her and your bairns. It ain’t my fault she got sick. I did my best for her. She’ll die full of gin.”
“And my nippers, you sod. What did you have in mind for them?”
Confusion showed on Wood’s face, evidence that the answer to that question would damn him more than silence.
“Strip,” snapped Pender.
“What?”
“Your clothes. Take them off. Every stitch.”
“Have a heart, mate, it’s the middle of winter.”
The club swung again, missing Wood’s head by a fraction. “You can have oblivion if you’d rather.”
He squealed like a pig, a sound echoed by the three children still cowering in the filthy cot. But he did as Pender had instructed, tearing off his clothes as quick as he could until he stood stark naked. Pender looked at the pale skin, the flabby but well-nurtured belly of a man who’d starved these children to feed himself. He lifted Wood’s grubby stock and tied it round his mouth, stifling the words of protest and tied the man’s hands behind his back, before spinning him round to look him straight in the eye.
“Right, you sod. It’s out in the street you go.”
The fear increased in Wood’s eyes, for he knew what that meant. No one would untie him, even if they knew him. A naked man would find no sympathy. But he’d find pain aplenty, as both men and women, some who’d suffered and many who’d not, used him as an unexpected source of sport. If he had a brain he’d head for a church. But a crowd would gather, including street urchins, the cruellest of the lot, who’d do their best to ensure that if he reached sanctuary, and found a vicar willing to untie him, he would do so on his knees, begging for mercy, and in no fit state to let on who’d tied him up.
Pender spun him and booted him out through the filthy rag that passed for a door. The hoot, from a dozen throats, was as immediate as he could have wished. Pender followed him into the stinking alleyway, watched as Wood started his stumbling run, heading for the nearest square that contained a church. The first sod of mud hit him within seconds. Others followed, mixed with stones, forcing him to turn away from his course. The sound grew as more people joined in the pursuit. A hue and cry was up, as word spread through the streets that there was sport to be had. Baiting bears and bulls was one thing, but it could not compare to the rare pleasure to be afforded from baiting a naked man.
He turned and looked back into the hovel. His wife still lay in the corner, her head lolling to one side while she laughed at some private joke. The children remained in the stained cot, with no idea what to do. If they recognised him they didn’t show it. But they’d been so abused and had become so cowed that he reckoned they only saw a man. And that, in the life they’d led since he left, only gave notice of pain, not love. They’d stay where they were, all of them. His wife because she could not move, his children because they had nowhere else to go. He dropped the flap behind him and went in search of a donkey and cart.
It was after six and night had fallen. It was bitterly cold, with the threat of snow in the air. James, having stayed too long at the Admiralty, saw that he was faced with a walk through the dark and threatening streets that stood between him and his lodging in St James’s. He headed for Pall Mall, the lights of the Prince of Wales’s palace, Carlton House, blazing on his left. It was easy to justify his wanderings and his feet needed no excessive bidding to follow the route to the familiar doorway. He would not seek to gain entry, for his attorney had expressly forbidden him to have any contact with Caroline. But he would stand beneath her window and look up, as he had done many times before, if only to wish that things could improve.
He had at least the satisfaction of having achieved something! Lord Spenser had promised to look into the attempt to murder the party that had sailed in the Planet, damning smugglers and their ilk in the process. He also had something he thought would mightily please his brother: a list of ships that had been submitted to the Admiralty for sale. As Spenser had so wryly observed, while the navy might be in a position to purchase one or two, the public purse would not run to so many, and Harry Ludlow could take his pick.
“He shall not foul my hawse, James Ludlow, as they say in the service.”
The bustle of the London streets barely dented his thoughts as he made his way up the lane that bordered Hyde Park. The area on his right hand seemed to be one vast building site. This was seen as a fine location for a grand house. Londonderry had finished his, and Apsley House was at the gardening stage. But the Grosvenors and the Duke of Dorchester were still in the hands of carpenters and plasterers, working by torchlight to complete these princely palaces.
Within ten minutes he found himself in Hanover Square, outside the Farrar house. It would be mortgaged to the hilt, of course, and on the market for a new lessee before the spring. Not that he’d want to live there. First he must gain Caroline her freedom. Once he’d achieved that they could then decide what to do. If London found their liaison too difficult to swallow, then there was always the country. And if that proved tedious, then they could retreat to Italy.
He could not be so close and not call, despite his earlier promises. Almost without thinking, he stepped forward to pull the bell.
She was at least clean now, clothed in a white shift. Pender looked into the still face, that had in death recovered some of the aspect he remembered from times past.
“You’re not staying, then?” said the apothecary, looking at the gold coins that Pender had placed in his hand.
Pender shook his head without looking up. “See her buried decently, with a service said and a headstone over her grave.”
“She can be interred by noon tomorrow.”
“That would be too late for me, friend,” said Pender, turning to look at the three children standing in a line, now neatly dressed and washed but still painfully thin and frightened.
The word was out on his name for sure. Perhaps the law wouldn’t stir itself to act for days. But that was not a chance he could take. They might just recall how much they wanted to lay him by the heels before, remember by what a narrow margin they’d missed him, be smarting still from the ridicule they’d suffered when he slipped through their fingers. No purpose would be served by his taking a risk.
He looked back at the apothecary. “I have a duty to the livin’, friend. Do as I bid you, please.”
He leant forward and kissed his dead wife on the brow before turning round to hustle his children into the horse and cart that waited outside, ready for the long journey that would take them all to Cheyne Court and the start of a new life.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“YOU WOULD seem to have a war on your hands, Mr Ludlow,” said Latham.
Harry made a dismissive gesture and leant forward to pass the port to his guest. They’d enjoyed a superb meal, and Cath Hogbin had made sure that Harry Ludlow gave her “prince” only the very best from the cellar. Not that he minded, for Latham deserved every bit of thanks that Harry could give him.
“You’re sure it was the same fellow?”
“I heard his voice, Captain Latham, just as plainly as I can hear yours now.”
“A frosty night; perhaps your ears played tricks, sir?” Harry shook his head as the soldier ruminated, looking for reasons as to why what was obvious should not be so. “How did the fellow know where to find you, or even your name, if it comes to that?”
“Come, Captain Latham. If anyone was privy to the noises we made when we came ashore it was you. And as for my name and address, that miserable penny-pinching scrub Wentworth posted them all over the town. Not only have I had to pay for the damned things, I’ve been put to further expense having them removed. My only fear is that the names of the other people in the boat became known through gossip. I’ve already written to Major Franks, though living surrounded by the Shorncliffe Light Brigade, I doubt he’s in any danger. My brother is safely in London and the house is now well guarded. But being so close to Deal, we were bound to suffer from his initial incursions.”
Latham had a twinkle in his eye as he listed the last name. “And Wentworth?”
“Oh yes,” said Harry wearily, for his anger with the young man had turned to that. “Though I was tempted to put up another poster with his address.”
After dinner, Latham had an engagement to attend upon Mrs Elizabeth Carter, the famous blue-stocking writer, who had a house in South Street. He invited Harry to accompany him, with the assurance that he would be most welcome.
“She is fond of youth, sir, for all her venerable years. And such an entertaining gossip. She knows something disreputable about everyone who’s been anyone these last fifty years.”
Harry declined with good grace, saying that he wished to take a turn around the town to check on the posters. Latham left for his appointment, having secured a room for the night for Harry. Harry did want to check that his posters had been removed, but he was afire with curiosity. Dinner with the soldier had done nothing to damp his desire to find the man who’d sought to drown them; rather the opposite, for Latham seemed to be the first person he’d talked to for an age who was not advising him how to live his life.
The information he needed was known to a goodly number of the locals. Posters might not do the trick, but a direct question with the offer of an immediate reward might loosen the odd tongue. His mind went back to that first day in Deal and the confrontation they’d had just outside the Three Kings. The batman, Cephas Quested, who’d interfered with his attempts to converse with Bridie Pruitt certainly knew more than most, otherwise he would never have curtailed their talk. But Harry would stay well away from him. There was Bridie Pruitt herself, of course. She might have something to say. Perhaps if he asked about her first, to find out where she lived. And then there was Bertles. Even if he only had enough information to indicate where they might have met, that would help.
The streets were crowded: bustling taverns full to the brim with sailors, some fresh from foreign parts. A quarter of the merchant trade of England seemed to pass through Deal. Ancient statutes, and the liberties of the Cinque Ports, meant that press gangs were barred from operating in the Downs. But sailors, prime hands some of them, were taken for the navy by private contractors: crimps, who would fill the men with drink, or tempt them with a doxie, then lure them to a quiet spot and sandbag them before bundling them into a naval tender.
Care had to be exercised in the choice of victim, for the locals took it very unkindly if one of their number was so treated. But the crimps were Deal men, known to all who worked here. For the boatmen, pilots, fishermen, and smugglers, they were easy to avoid. Only strangers were taken, let ashore by their captain after months at sea. And since they had not yet been paid the full rate for their voyage, their captain would not complain if they failed to return. As long as he could get his ship to the next destination, the Pool of London, he would not miss his man. Besides, he would pocket the wages outstanding, sure that a man pressed for the navy would have little chance of redress. Outgoing captains, who needed their sailors, took greater care, and were exceedingly vocal when they lost a hand. Not that their protest counted for much. By the time a man was aboard a naval ship he was listed as a volunteer, had pocketed the king’s bounty, and was lost to the merchant fleet for the duration.
The man would be replaced, of course, but at prime rates. The only hands available knew they were a scarce commodity and charged accordingly. And they were numerous. Harry knew that if he stuck up another poster, asking for hands to man an exempt privateer, he would find himself inundated with proper seamen. He was turning that thought over in his mind when he saw Cephas Quested enter one of Deal’s most notorious taverns, the Paragon. Despite his earlier reservations, it seemed too good a chance to pass up, so he followed him through the door into the noisy room.
He had to peer through the pipe smoke to see where he had gone, finally spotting him whispering in someone’s ear, hard by the musicians noisily playing their fiddles and flutes. Harry, moving closer, observed the way that Quested poked the man with the point of his elaborate club. He could see the look of fear in the fellow’s eyes as he listened. Sense dictated that he stay away. It was none of his concern, but his feet seemed to take him in that direction without bidding. Harry found a spare seat at a table less than four feet away, just before the conversation ended.
Quested laid his carved club on the table and lifted his head slowly, like a man who knew he was being observed. But he didn’t turn his head. Instead he jerked it at another fellow, who shot out of his chair, so vacating it for him. Harry knew the batman had him in the corner of his eye. He waved frantically to a serving girl, shouting loudly to order a tankard of ale, determined to give the appearance of a man relaxed, as well as one intent on pleasure.
Harry was at home in a seaport. But he could tell, by the occasional glance which was thrown his way, that this made little difference to Quested or those who sat with him. They had a stiffness about their demeanour which was very apparent. It was hard for Harry to avoid looking at their table, even with all that was going on in the room. He tried hard to concentrate on other people, imagining explaining to someone like James how each separate group represented an individual drama. There would be
crime here aplenty, even if you left out smuggling. He could see men who knew their surroundings, local men in groups, sitting with the confidence of hard bargains, drinking their ale as they scanned the room for a likely mark. And they were not lacking in candidates. The Paragon was packed.
Up in the gallery that ran along two of the Paragon’s walls the better class of whores were plying their trade under the watchful eye of the owner, who’d want his cut if they found a well-heeled customer in his tavern. A party of naval midshipmen, drunk as lords, were creating enough noise to drown out the fiddler, determined that all should know that they were as brave as lions. The gallery also contained well-dressed fellows, landsmen, who looked a cut above the clerks and shopkeepers down below. One of them, maybe more, would be a private contractor looking for hands to sell to the navy. Yet others were sleek-looking captains, with the East Indiamen’s officers, awash with ostrich and gold lace, easily the best dressed.
But mostly, down here in the well of the tavern, the customers of the Paragon were pigtailed seamen. Harry, like any crimp who cared to look, could identify those sailors who were at the start of a voyage, as opposed to those who’d just come in, merely by their attitude. More than that, he could spot the others, the men who were for hire if the price was right, men who would not be fooled by a crimp’s bookish appearance and his friendly ways. The whores at this level, who traded in copper, not silver, tended to be brutes. They were broad of beam, with rouged cheeks and forearms that would not shame a champion ostler. Most would service their clients in a darkened alley, that is, if they were sober enough to perform. Others, already drunk, who tended to paw their grotesque companions as an owner strokes a cat, would likely wake in the morning, breeches intact, shivering from the cold air, wondering what had happened to their purse.
Harry was so intent on his thoughts that he didn’t notice that Quested was on his feet heading in his direction. He shifted his position quickly, ready to leap up if he was threatened, though he doubted even someone like Quested could do anything in so public a place. The man stopped before him, the carved club swinging easily in his hand. Harry, who had deliberately looked elsewhere, pretended surprise when he finally acknowledged Quested’s presence.
Hanging Matter Page 18