Hanging Matter

by David Donachie

  Harry had rarely felt such a humbug as he stood there with his raised finger, implying by his stern look that punishment would be swift if these half-starved mites failed in their learning or their duties. Mrs Cray was nodding sagely, her round face cast in a serious mould. But Pender, trying to avoid a smile, did little to help. Harry sighed inwardly. This domestic formality had to be gone through, yet he would rather have quelled a mutiny than lectured these children. If it had been anyone other than Pender, he would have left the task to Arthur.

  “They need feedin’ afore they can be set to any task,” said Cook.

  “Then make it so, Mrs Cray,” said Harry, happily turning his mind to more pressing matters. “Feed them up.”

  He couldn’t just leave without saying anything. Indeed, after what had happened it made sense to ensure that Arthur knew his destination. Not the details of course. But if Harry had hoped to avoid an argument, he was soon disabused.

  “Since the law won’t do anything, Arthur, I must.”

  “The law will do something if you give it time, Harry,” said his brother-in-law sharply. He’d spent most of the day writing even more irate replies to everyone in authority, calling on them to act swiftly and put an end to the mayhem. “I am forced to observe that you are displaying your customary impetuosity. What you propose lacks any sense.”

  Harry stiffened at the rebuke, for no one, however close, had the right to address him in that manner, and Arthur, for all his disapproval, had never dared to talk to him in such a way. He had also, for once, completely lost his natural composure, accompanying the words with a black look, which made matters worse. When Harry added to the list what had happened with Naomi Smith, his brother-in-law was lucky not to be called out for his temerity.

  “I am inclined to allow you a degree of liberty, Arthur. But I would not like you to assume that you had carte blanche to abuse it.” There was no reply, for Arthur had lost the capacity to speak, alarming in a man so naturally urbane. “I shall leave the house well guarded if that’s what troubles you.”

  “You forget that I was a soldier,” he snapped, angrily. His voice rose to a near shout. “I don’t require you, or anyone else for that matter, to tell me how to set a picket!”

  What was amiss? Arthur never allowed himself a display of temper. It wasn’t fear, for Harry knew that he was a man as brave as he needed to be. It was another manifestation of the change in their relationship since his return. It couldn’t be guilt: Arthur wasn’t the type. He resolved to talk to Anne. But that would have to wait. If he was to get to Deal in plenty of time to achieve his aim, he would have to go now.

  “Say goodbye to Anne for me, Arthur. Tell her to expect me for breakfast in the morning.”

  Arthur just turned his back on him.

  But Lord Drumdryan watched them depart, half an hour later, with a deep frown. His expression had little to do with Harry’s intentions, more to do with the piece of paper in his hand. The letter reminded him that interest was due on his loan. If he defaulted the whole sum was forfeit, an amount of money he could not raise. It would mean going to the money lenders. Only they would accept him now, for he’d pledged all his credit elsewhere in his bid to achieve financial independence. He recalled the day when, upstairs at the Griffin’s Head, he’d committed himself to this venture, and wondered, not for the first time, whether impending fatherhood had not pushed him into an unwise decision. Oddly enough, the song “Tom Bowling” came into his head. They’d been singing it downstairs when he left. Not the true version, of course, which had vexed him. He’d met Dibdin the composer, and knew the song well. One line sprang to mind now:. “But mirth is turned to melancholy. Dear God,” he said aloud, his head raised to the ceiling. “Can I have nothing in this life that does not come from a Ludlow?”

  “It makes sense to assume that they have a watch on the road from Deal, so we’ll take the roundabout way and approach the town from Sandwich.”

  Pender just nodded as they made their way out of the gate and turned north-east. The sun was setting behind them, a red ball in the cold evening air as it sank somewhere to the west. They rode through Eastry to the village of Worth, then turned south-east till they met the road that linked Sandwich and Deal, coming into the town on the landward side of the corn mill that stood behind Sandown Castle. Darkness had fallen and with it the temperature. Harry pulled his hat low and his greatcoat collar up, then added a thick muffler to hide the lower part of his face. It was a suitable precaution against the cold night air and he stood little chance of being recognised. But there was an element of display in even this manner of dress, for if he stood still in one place too long, he would, in a suspicious town like Deal, attract a degree of attention.

  Pender took their horses to the stables behind the Royal Exchange Hotel, telling the lad to leave them saddled and paying an extra coin for the use of the stall nearest the door. The boy, who seemed a touch dim-witted, watched as he took a musket from the leather holster and headed back out into the street. He walked up to the beach to join Harry, handing over the weapon and the cartouche containing the powder and balls. Harry handed him a piece of chalk in return. “If you’re forced to follow him to some place we haven’t thought of, try and leave a trail with this. I shall do the same.”

  Pender, no stranger to low life, had never been in a place with so many drinking dens. Every second doorway seemed to offer the prospect of spiritous liquor or ale. If he’d had a drink in every one he couldn’t have sandbagged his youngest daughter, but with a man the size of Quested a look through the door sufficed. And in every place he stopped eyes were on him, some guarded, some curious. But Pender knew a footpad as well as he knew a crimp and it must have showed, for no one tried to engage him in genial conversation, or tried following him out into the street hoping that he’d head for somewhere dark.

  Harry, with the weapons well hidden under his greatcoat, took up station on the corner nearest Portobello Court. Despite the cold the streets were as busy as ever, with blue-nosed whores swathed in shawls importuning equally frozen customers, offering warmth as well as gratification. Those who accepted were whisked into the alley behind to reappear in a remarkably short time. Those who declined were exposed to a high degree of ribaldry. Since the latter far outweighed the former, Harry was regaled with a raucous cacophony of highly amusing insults directed at the members of his impotent sex.

  Engrossed in this street theatre, he nearly missed Quested. The batman, with his carved club slung over his shoulder, walked right past him, marching towards the beach. It was only the crunch of his metal-studded boots that made Harry turn to look. The batman returned the stare but passed by without stopping, having no idea whose face lay behind the thick muffler. Harry took his lump of chalk and drew a quick H on the wall, added an arrow, and waited until Quested was halfway up the street before setting off in pursuit.

  Pender was in the Paragon, which was as crowded and smoky as the night before, when Quested entered. He might only have seen the man once, and that briefly, but there was no mistaking the bulk and the ugly face. He watched as his quarry took a chair at a crowded table. A drink was placed before him and he engaged in earnest conversation. It was always bound to be a difficult choice if this happened, to stay and watch or go and inform. Try as they might, neither Pender nor his captain could think of a set of rules to govern every eventuality. But Quested’s settled air decided him, and he slipped out of the door in a manner designed to draw the minimum attention.

  “Pender!” cried Harry from across the road. Wreathed in deep shadow, Pender had to look hard to see him. “Over here, man.”

  He walked slowly across to join him, for there were enough people around the entrance to observe any haste. He turned and looked back at the doorway, his back towards his captain.

  “What do you reckon, your honour?”

  “We take him at the first chance,” said Harry.

  “How?”

  “We have to lure him up one of these dark alleyway
s.”

  “I hope you’ve got a plan for that, Captain, ’cause I’m damned if I have.”

  “Cephas Quested,” said Harry. The walls, close to on either side, made his voice sound loud and hollow.

  The batman stopped and turned slowly towards the darkness. “Who’s ’at?”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t recognize my voice, Quested.”

  It was a measure of the man’s confidence in his own abilities, as well as his feelings of absolute security, that he took a step towards the alley, ignoring the drunk that lay slumped beside a wheelbarrow at the entrance. “Don’t fuck me about, you swab. Step out where I can see you.”

  “I don’t want you to faint away, Cephas Quested. After last night, you might reckon you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Holy Christ!” Quested snapped. The club was up in the air, but he wasn’t stupid enough to leave the safety of the street.

  “You said you wanted a bout, I recall,” said Harry, stepping forward and pulling down the muffler just enough to show his face. “Now’s your chance.”

  Pender, no longer slumped on the ground, pushed the musket up under the batman’s chin. Harry had to speak quickly to stop Quested reacting violently.

  “Stay still!” he snapped. “That is, if you want to keep your face attached to your head.”

  His speed was amazing. The carved club was flying at Harry’s head a split second after he swept aside Pender’s musket, hitting him with a sideways blow. Harry was saved only because the club hit the wall before it hit him. He fell backwards, dropping on his knee. Quested dived into the alley, arms outstretched, striving in the darkness to get hold of his invisible opponent.

  Harry took his full weight as he fell on top of him, which emptied every ounce of breath out of his lungs. In the confined space there was no room to wriggle free, but neither was there room for the bigger man to swing his arms properly. Instead he fumbled about looking for Harry’s throat. He’d almost got a grip when Pender hit him with the stock of the musket. His head shot forward, taking Harry on the bridge of his nose. Blood flowed immediately, filling his nostrils and mouth as it gushed out. He could hear Pender’s voice calling urgently, a sound interspersed with the thud of something hitting flesh and blood.

  Whatever Pender was doing slowed Quested down, but it didn’t entirely stop him. Harry pushed a hand into his face and felt Quested’s teeth sink into his thumb. The gun going off was like the day of judgement in the alleyway, but it illuminated the scene enough for Pender to take proper aim with the stock of the musket and he fetched Quested a blow around the ear which was hard enough to stun even this giant. That didn’t afford Harry much relief, for he now had Quested as dead weight on top of him.

  “Quick, Captain,” called Pender.

  Harry wanted to swear at him, to tell him he could not comply: he had little breath, blood streaming out of his nose, a damaged hand, and a cart-horse astride his chest. But his anger helped, and with his servant’s pulling and his pushing they managed to raise the inert body enough to allow him to wriggle free.

  “Murder! They’re doing murder!”

  The voice was high-pitched and female, so it carried. Pender, appearing suddenly from the darkness, earned a scream to add to the words. But he’d forced the women to run away, giving them a little time. He ran back into the alley. There was no time for niceties. He made sure that his heels did some damage as he scrambled over Quested’s head.

  “Get an arm, Captain, and heave him upright.”

  “No time,” gasped Harry, still holding his nose. “We’ll have to leave him there. Let’s hope you hit him hard enough to keep him out of action for a while.”

  The noise was getting louder as a crowd gathered at the bottom of the alley. Harry stubbed his toe on Quested’s club, which made a ringing sound as it hit the stone wall. He picked it up quickly and the two men ran towards the seaward end, emerging into the street near the Three Kings. Harry ran on, down the alley to the beach. The sound of the surf on the shingle drowned out all the other noises as he bent down close to the water, cupping his hands to wash the blood off his face.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  HARRY TURNED to find himself alone. There was no sign of Pender, yet he had definitely followed him through the alleys that led to the beach. Gently he touched his nose, which was luckily intact, wincing as his finger made contact with the swollen bridge. Then he saw the barrel of the musket glinting on the shingle, with Quested’s carved club lying beside it. He bent down to pick it up, grabbing the cartouche that lay beside it so that he could reload. The light wasn’t good, but the phosphorescence from the surf helped, and he was performing a task he’d completed a thousand times. The weapon was reloaded and ready for use by the time Pender returned. “Where have you been, man?”

  “Had to find out how we’d got on, your honour, so I joined the crowd that got Quested out of that alley.”

  “Are you mad? What if you’d been spotted?”

  There was a slight note of asperity in his servant’s voice. “Who’s goin’ to spot the likes of me in a crowd?”

  “Did you find out anything?”

  “Quested is out cold, with a lump on the back of his neck the size of a goose egg. And there’s blood aplenty. They carted him off in a barrow to the Hope and Anchor. It’s my guess, from looking at him, that he won’t be upright this age. That is, if we haven’t killed him, which I truly hope is the case.”

  “It won’t bother me, Pender.”

  “This is England, your honour. Not someplace foreign.”

  Harry barely heard that remark, his mind being fully occupied in finding a way to take advantage of Quested’s absence, temporary or permanent. He had to find a method of bringing his involvement in this event to Temple’s attention, but in a manner that would not initiate a violent response. It would help if he could disperse the rest of Temple’s protection, as well as dislodge him from that damned tavern.

  “We need a couple of bottles, a lantern, some rags, and turpentine,” said Harry, casting around the beach for a big enough stone.

  The Hope and Anchor boasted of its supremacy as a tavern by having large windows made up of thick glass in eighteen-inch panes, something which cost a great deal of money, even without the imposition of a window tax. It was a way of saying “damn the expense” as well as damn the authorities, for any man who stood close enough could see through the panes and make out what was going on inside, which should have been anathema to a place engaged in covert trade. Harry Ludlow remembered that glass from his previous visit and prepared to make the man who owned the place pay for his arrogant display.

  They went first to the stable, replacing the unwieldy musket in its case, taking instead a pair of pistols from Harry’s saddlebags. Pender kept Quested’s club well concealed from the stableboy. Anyone from Deal would recognize it instantly. Then they went shopping. In buying the things he needed Harry had been tempted by the idea of knocking up a ship’s chandler and purchasing some powder, but much as the idea appealed, he didn’t want to blow the place up, or even destroy it. His intention was to demonstrate that he was capable of causing a great deal of trouble: so much trouble that he would be better accommodated than harmed. On their way back to the beach to make their preparations Pender had helped himself to a metal-topped boathook, which he’d lifted out of the hands of a drunken and indifferent longshoreman.

  “Better than stones, I reckon,” he said, to Harry’s enquiring look.

  “Greatcoats off, Pender,” said Harry. “Otherwise we won’t be able to move properly. We can hide them in one of the boats.”

  “Hats as well, your honour, I’d say.” He held up Quested’s decorated club. “And this too. It might bring on unwelcome attention.”

  Harry whipped off his tricorn hat. Pender rolled everything neatly around the club and stuffed it under the thwarts of one of the fishing boats, then picked up one of the round pieces of wood that the boatmen used to get their boats well up the beach out of the water
. After a final check of their inventory they headed towards the Hope and Anchor, ducking through alleys to avoid any unwelcome attention.

  There was an open-air cock-fight taking place in the square. Harry and Pender stood on the edge of the throng, waiting while the bets were placed. As soon as the fight started the crowd edged forward, leaving the two men some clear space. They turned towards the tavern and made ready. Pender slipped the round pole from the beach into the two handles on the door, barring it.

  As the noise behind them rose in a crescendo, Harry knelt by the tavern wall and opened the lantern, poking the turpentine-soaked rag in the bottle into the flame. It caught slowly and he put it aside, following up with another bottle. As soon as the second one was alight, Pender swung the boathook as hard as he could, choosing a square pane which looked as though it already had several faults.

  The first blow merely cracked the glass, and no doubt caused a few of the customers to jump away in alarm. Certainly someone was trying in vain to pull the doors open. The second blow shattered the glass completely. Pender poked at the pane to make the gap larger, while Harry stood back from the wall, both flaming bottles in his hands. Pender, satisfied that he’d done as well as he could, turned towards the tavern door, the boathook raised to take on the first man to force his way through. This action was none too soon, for the piece of beach-wood, which had been soaked so many times it was extremely brittle, cracked in half. An angry face appeared at the broken window, the mouth open, ready to yell abuse. But the sight of a flaming bottle coming straight for his head made preservation his priority.