“Are you tailing me?” Quested asked.
“Would that be necessary?” he replied, deliberately examining the man’s square, scarred face and massive shoulders. “You don’t strike me as a hard man to find.”
“That’s right, mate. Nor do I have much trouble catching up with them I seek. Not like some I could mention, who takes to larding the whole town with posters, despite a request to mind his nose.”
Harry got to his feet slowly, one eye on the club. He knew that others were watching them, for all that the noise in the room had only diminished a trifle. Once erect he moved close to Quested. He was in a dangerous, isolated situation, one which required a degree of bluff to balance.
“I don’t remember your warning being in the nature of a request.”
Quested sneered, his lips curling in a mock smile. “Forget my manners, did I?”
“I don’t suppose you did, not being in possession of any.”
The smile disappeared and the carved club, with its elaborate snakes and dragons, came up a trifle. “Are you seeking a clout round the lug?”
It was now Harry’s turn to smile, which he made sure was broad enough for all those interested to observe. “You’d never connect, friend, not even with that club.”
Quested didn’t blink. He had all the confidence of a true hard case. “I heard you was a gamecock. But so am I, mate. I can lay aside the club if you wish it so, an’ I’ll still box your ears with one hand.”
“What happened to Bridie Pruitt?” asked Harry.
The question threw the other man for moment, for he had been expecting a different response. “Who?”
“Bridie Pruitt. The woman who lost her man in the Planet.”
“Who says she did?” Quested growled.
“Anyone with half a brain, mate.” Harry fought back the temptation to add an insult to that. He didn’t actually want to fight Quested in a situation which was plainly not to his advantage. Even with the odds in his favour he would think twice about taking on such a brawler.
“You don’t have much use for ears, friend, I’ll say that. I already told you to mind your own.”
Harry pushed his face a little closer, aware that the noise in the Paragon had diminished even further, as more people became aware that there was the chance of a fight taking place. Those closest, who realised earliest, and who stood to suffer accidentally, had already edged their chairs away.
“Listen, Quested. I didn’t put up those posters. Not that it’s any of your business if I did. But the man who carved up Bertles and strung up Bridie Pruitt’s man also tried to kill me the other day, by sailing right over the boat Bertles put us in. I don’t take very kindly to that, but being in no position to do anything I let it pass. But hearken to this. By sheer chance I came across an armed party getting set to attack my house, in the middle of the night, and it’s only by luck that I saw them off. It was the same man. You might not know much about me. But if you care to ask around, I dare say there are enough people who know the name of Ludlow who will tell you that’s not something I’ll sit still for. So you can warn all you like, friend, I’ll set my own course, and if you foul my anchor, I’ll not back off. Raise that club to me, just once, and I’ll lop off your arm.”
Quested looked down at the sword Harry was wearing. There was no fear in it, just the act of a man checking the odds. Then he looked back up, his eyes boring into Harry’s. They stood like that for a few seconds, each of them tensed to move at the first hint that his opponent meant to attack. Harry could feel the tingling sensation he always had before an action, as though his blood lacked patience.
“So you’ve a mind to tangle with this fellow?”
“I’ll not wait till he attacks again,” Harry replied. “And if you know who he is, I should tell him so.”
“What makes you think I know?” Quested growled.
“I won’t insult either of us by answering that.”
For the first time the batman blinked, as though the mere act of thinking strained his ability. Harry saw a slight chance to take the initiative. Asking him would be as useless as questioning Braine. But a threat might do the trick, however slight. “I’ll find him, mate. And if in the process I ruffle a few feathers, or interfere with other people’s ability to trade, then so be it.”
“You’ll wait here, Ludlow,” said Quested suddenly, backing off slightly.
“Why should I?” asked Harry, completely thrown by this unlooked for response, for he could hardly believe that his threat had produced such an impact.
“I need to find out how much trouble you’re goin’ to be. When I’ve smoked that, I might decide to aid you.” The batman frowned. “I had no time for Tobias Bertles. He had too big a mouth for his chosen game. But the man who killed him overstepped the mark. Not in skinning Bertles. That was fair. But he shouldn’t have hung the crew.”
“You do know who he is, don’t you?”
“Happen I do, Ludlow. But I might not say. I might just work out that you’re full of piss and wind, an’ set my mind to decanting you on to the floor.”
“I just want a name.”
“As I said, Ludlow, stay here. I’ll send someone to fetch you if we want to do business.”
“We?” asked Harry.
“Just wait.”
“And if you don’t return?” asked Harry.
“Then I’ll make sure everyone in Deal knows it. Which means you can ask till your ears are blue, you’ll get nowt.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
HARRY SAT nursing his tankard of ale, wondering if he’d chosen the right course. He’d been tempted to follow Quested. He might send someone, a lure for a trap; but Quested was the type, if roused enough, to use his club in the market place on the day an Assize was sitting. That was his job as the Aldington gang’s chief batman. He was a man who would kill with ease, using his trademark club, with its delicate carving, or any other weapon to hand. He also behaved as if he had near immunity from punishment. He walked Deal town fearing no man, including the law. That had been plain from the way he’d warned Harry originally. He was known to all and sundry as a dangerous rogue, a man it would be fatal to cross. Harry doubted if even Braine, who could not be in any doubt about his occupation, would dare to try and accost him without a troop of well-armed soldiers in attendance.
Surprisingly, it was Quested himself who returned, beckoning to Harry from the doorway to join him. He kept a weather eye on the other tables, making sure that none of Quested’s previous companions stood to follow, but was reassured by their undisguised curiosity as he passed. If they’d intended to follow him they would surely have pretended to ignore him.
He walked out on to the hard crust of mud that covered the road outside the Paragon. Quested was waiting at the bottom of the street, his round leather hat shining in the glow cast by the lantern above the Paragon’s sign. Harry joined him and they turned the corner in the roadway known as Middle Street. Respectable houses and businesses existed cheek by jowl with less salubrious concerns, like the hogs’ slaughter house, but in the main it was a street of numerous noisy taverns. The lanterns on these provided sufficient light to make the whole thoroughfare a place of activity, with groups singing and the odd fiddler providing the music for people to dance. Hawkers called to the pair trying to entice them to cock-fights, and bare-knuckle boxing bouts.
As they approached Portobello Court, a narrow dead-end alley, the number of whores increased till they could not take a step without a proposition, and the girls were not the type to let those who ignored them walk by without an insult. The Hope and Anchor was on the corner of a wide square, which by the debris that littered the street appeared to be a daytime market. Now it was home to bear-baiting, dog-fighting, and the like. Quested stopped before entering the tavern, examining the square as if sniffing for danger. Satisfied, he pushed his way into the tap-room. It was crowded to the door, but the crowd found the space to part as he led Harry through to a table at the back.
Every c
hair was full. The man at the rear, in the largest chair, a leather affair with an intricately carved frame, leaned forward to make a point, exposing some faded gold lettering. His long, fine silver hair gleamed in the light from the lantern directly above his head. The motions of the crowd interrupted him, and he glanced up as they approached, holding up his hands to still the conversation of the others. The face was sharp featured, lined, and grey, as though gone to seed through over-indulgence. It was not the face of a healthy man and the small consumptive cough that he emitted added to the impression of a creature near death’s door. Huge black rings framed his pale blue eyes. The lips were thin and wet. With his shiny silver hair and his sober grey clothes he looked like a proselytizing evangelical parson who drank as much as he preached, and was close to meeting his maker.
He addressed Harry in a gentle, well-modulated voice, deep and attractive, which was followed by another small cough. “If you’ll forgive me, sir, I have a small amount of business to conclude. Pray let Quested know what you would like to drink.”
“He’ll drink brandy and lump it,” growled the batman, with a scant display of respect, before he turned and elbowed his way to the hatch from which the drinks were served.
Harry had a chance to look at the four other men at the table. They were scruffily dressed and pigtailed, and clearly made their living on the seas. Despite their precautions in speaking quietly, the odd word floated up to register in his ears. One of them mentioned a cargo of silk. Judging by the silver-haired man’s smiling response, which exposed long yellow teeth, he was not to be disappointed in his attempt to secure a sale, the only problem obviously being the price. They haggled away quietly, before striking a bargain. A final shake sealed their arrangements, and they stood up to leave just as Quested returned with two goblets of brandy.
The silver-haired man leant forward again, gesturing for Harry to sit down. The gold lettering at his back was exposed again: IN NOCTE POSSUMUS. Harry read the inscription as he complied with the request, taking a chair at the side which would afford him a view of the room. Not that he could see much. Once the sailors who’d been dealing at the table left the noisy crowd closed behind them, with much grinning and playful jostling, leaving Harry and his hosts in a space cocooned off from the world outside. Quested took a chair as well, sitting opposite Harry, his goblet of brandy untouched in front of him.
Weighing the odds, Harry could be content, for they’d not invited him to a quieter spot. Here, in the open tap-room, he was relatively safe. No one in their right mind would lay hands on him with such a crowd to witness it. Their host looked anxiously over his shoulder, wet his lips, then favoured him with a benign, thin smile, which contrasted sharply with the glare he was getting from Quested.
“It was good of you to accept my invitation, Mr Ludlow.”
“I find myself at a stand, sir, for I cannot reply without knowing your name.”
The thin smile again, a second anxious glance, this time at Cephas Quested, followed by another slight cough. “You have an overweening curiosity in that direction, I find. Cephas here tells me that you’re after another name.”
“I will accept yours as first step, sir.”
The man looked at Quested, who nodded. Then he turned back, fixing Harry with his pale blue eyes. “Temple.”
Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you in any way related to the magistrate of the same name?”
“We are half-brothers, sir, sired by the same father, but different mothers. He is, of course, somewhat younger than me.”
Harry looked at Cephas Quested, adding what he could surmise to what he knew. There was no doubt that he was dealing with one of the most powerful smuggling gangs in the town, just as it was plain by his occupancy of the chair that this man was the leader. Yet the fellow lacked stature. It wasn’t just his physical dimensions, which were slight, nor his lack of good health. There was no air of command about him, no feeling that those around him either respected him or feared him, one of which would be absolutely essential to hold the loyalty of such a hard-bitten crew.
But it was the name that filled his mind. Smuggling might be common in this part of the world, but it was still crime. To have the leader of a notorious gang closely related to the man charged with upholding the law argued a degree of acceptance above the norm. There was no guarantee that they cared for each other, of course. It was as if this Temple had read his thoughts, for when he spoke he answered the question uppermost in Harry’s mind.
“We enjoy a good relationship.” Temple flicked a hand towards the glowering presence of Cephas Quested. “Indeed my brother relies on me to keep order in the town. It is so much simpler for me to persuade someone against wrongdoing, since I am not constrained by legal procedure. A word from Quested here usually does the trick.”
“I dare say he returns the compliment in some way,” said Harry, with a degree of deliberate irony.
“Oh, he does, Mr Ludlow,” said Temple, leaning forward and laying a gentle hand on Harry’s sleeve, an act which exposed the faded gold lettering again. “We find the petty restrictions that affect most men are not applied to us.”
He glanced past Harry again, but the anxious look was gone. Harry took a sip of his brandy, giving himself a moment to think. The buzz of conversation had died behind him, as though the whole tap-room was hanging on their every word.
“Did you command Tobias Bertles?”
Temple shrugged. “At one time. But he was an unreliable cove, given to the kind of pranks that make life warmer than I would like. When he found himself a patron willin’ to stand him the money for a ship, I was pleased to see him go.”
“Who was this patron?”
The grip on his sleeve tightened a little, and Temple looked slightly confused. Then his grey face took on a shifty look. He gave Quested another glance, as though seeking approval. Harry guessed that he was unlikely to find out the name he was after, never mind the identity of the man who’d backed Bertles. “What did you think when Bertles was murdered?” he asked.
“Only that he very likely brought it on himself.”
“And his crew?”
“Few were local. Deal is full of hands for someone willing to pay prime rates.”
“Bridie Pruitt lost her man. Was he local?”
Temple looked confused. Quested cut in quickly, with an authority that contrasted strongly with his supposed superior’s.
“Never you fret about Bridie Pruitt, Ludlow. She’ll find another to buy her bread. Perhaps if Bertles’s funds had run to long contracts, he might have had more local men.”
Harry’s mind went back to the scene of the deck of the Planet, to the crew that Bertles had been so eager to impress. What Quested said made sense. There had been no hint of loyalty in the crew, more the air that their captain had got them into a situation for which they hadn’t bargained.
“From what I saw, his money didn’t extend to buying contraband either.”
“Is that so?” said Temple, patting his wrist.
“He was in the process of stealing another man’s goods. That’s what started the trouble in the first place.”
Harry was surprised by Temple’s lack of curiosity. It was almost as if he knew what had happened and didn’t need to be told.
Temple gave him a sly smile, as well as another gentle squeeze on his lower arm, and spoke almost jokingly. “That sounds like Tobias Bertles all right. And from what I hear, he and his backer chose to rob one of the most hard-hearted bastards in the trade.”
“That’s the name I’m after.”
The eyes flicked towards Quested again, as if seeking permission to continue. “I’m forced to enquire why.”
“I should think if you’ve spoken with your brother the magistrate you’ll already know the answer to that. The ‘hard-hearted bastard’ tried to kill a group of people, including me, who had nothing to do with Bertles and his games.”
Temple sucked his teeth. But the sly smile soon returned. “Fellow didn’t suc
ceed. Why bother?”
“A party of armed men came to my house last night. The man that led them was the same person who tried to run us down in his ship. It was only by the merest good fortune that we stopped them from doing what they intended.”
“Which was?”
“Given his previous behaviour, I doubt it was anything less than murder.”
“Now why would he want to murder you, Ludlow?” said Quested with a sneer that made his scar stand out white on his red face.
Harry ignored the tone of sarcasm. “I can take care of myself. But it’s not just me. It’s my brother as well. I cannot speak for his attitude to the other people in the boat. But if he’s prepared to go to those lengths to find us, for we were all witnesses, I must also assume he has them down for mischief too.”
“So, given his name, you’d turn him in.”
There was a stirring in the silent crowd. But Temple had his eyes locked on Harry, which, despite the obvious commotion behind him, stopped him from turning to look.
“I most certainly would. That is, if I didn’t kill him personally.”
He’d seen Quested pick up his goblet for the first time, just as he felt the pressure on his forearm increase. But Harry was not prepared for the vice-like grip that Temple took, nor was he ready for the stream of brandy that hit his face, momentarily blinding him as he spun sideways to avoid it.
Hands grabbed him. Little of the brandy had actually managed to get into his eyes, but it was enough to make opening them a painful business. The gag was round his mouth before he could protest and he felt the ropes cut into his wrist as his hands were lashed behind his back.
“I think after last night this’ll cheer you up,” said Quested.
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