Hanging Matter

by David Donachie

  Harry gave a small laugh. “Would that it was another commander.”

  “You know Admiral Duncan?” asked Latham, with just a trace of hope, for someone with Adam Duncan’s connections could move mountains.

  “Yes. My father and he were professional rivals, but not friends.”

  “Ah!”

  “And Duncan is, of course, a Scotsman,” said James, taking advantage of Arthur’s absence. His sister gave him a sharp elbow in the ribs. Latham raised a dark eyebrow at this, but said nothing.

  “Pray be seated, Captain,” said Anne, pulling at the bell. “You must be fatigued after your journey. You must dine with us, before you begin the long journey back to Deal.”

  “Most kind, Lady Drumdryan,” replied Latham, with a bow so courtly and old fashioned it would have mightily pleased her husband.

  “Trench has been carried off to Maidstone, charged with murder and evasion of excise duty. The murder charge won’t stick without witnesses, so you will be called for that. The goods he fetched in are due to be auctioned on the morrow, at the Three Kings.”

  “What about the other two ships?” asked Harry. Latham looked at him without comprehension, forcing him to explain. “It would seem that Braine and the older Temple had made themselves a tidy sum. They are smuggling goods that they have not had to pay for.”

  “Will they allow that they got the idea from Tobias Bertles?” said James.

  “A man who casts a long shadow,” said Arthur sourly.

  Harry was sick to the back teeth of the name Bertles, sorry that he’d ever heard it. The man had enveloped his whole household in trouble. “What about Trench’s ship?” he asked.

  “That’s being auctioned as well,” replied Latham. “Having been caught full of contraband it is naturally forfeit.”

  “Where is it?” James noticed that Harry’s voice had changed, but no one else did.

  “Lying off the Three Kings, hard by the public quay.”

  Harry seemed to sit up suddenly, as though his muscles had become tensed for action. “You have no idea how grateful I am, Captain Latham. I shall, of course, be well away from Cheyne Court tomorrow.”

  Latham raised his glass. “I sincerely hope so, sir. But do not, I pray, tell me where you’re going, lest by my countenance I betray the fact that I have some knowledge.”

  “You anticipate trouble, sir?” asked Arthur.

  “Questions will be asked.” His handsome face clouded over, the first sign of anger that anyone at the table had seen on the young officer’s face. “But since I am moving at the same pace as our commander-in-chief, the Duke of York, I don’t feel that anyone will dare remonstrate with me.”

  It was James who picked up the undertone. “Has he failed yet again?”

  “He has, Mr Ludlow. He has retired to Hanover, with his tail between his legs, his army broken. They have even penned a song about it.”

  Latham was still singing verses from “The Grand Old Duke of York” as the groom led his horse to the front door. He had had too much to drink, masking his anger at events in the Low Countries by over-indulgence. He rubbed the brass cannon, back in their rightful place, before mounting his animal. Harry had the groom lead him down to the gate, with instructions to stay with the captain until he was sober enough to stay in the saddle unaided.

  “So, Harry,” said James, “what’s the plan?”

  Harry looked at him oddly, as if preparing to deny that he had one. But he smiled instead. “I think I’m spending too much time with you, James. It’s becoming impossible to keep a secret.”

  James and Arthur stood well in the background while the contraband was auctioned, content to let others buy up the silks and spirits. Braine sat to one side, his face glowing with pleasure, for some of the money coming in would be paid to him as a reward. But the smile vanished as the two men stepped forward, which they did at the first mention of the ship.

  “Now, gentlemen,” said the auctioneer. “I don’t have to tell you seafaring types that she’s a sound vessel, a ship-rigged barque, going by the name of Miranda. I dare say you’ve spent the morning looking her over. Old Prospero himself would be proud to have her. Now we can go about this two ways. I have here an inventory of all the stores in the hold. I intend to start by putting the whole lot up for one price. But be warned that I have a reserve. If’n I don’t get to that, I shall sell the stores piecemeal, cask by cask, and nail by nail, and the man that wants the ship will still be here when the sun goes down.”

  “Why is it,” said Arthur, “that every auctioneer you meet, quite pleasant fellows in normal life, are prey to tricks and chicanery as soon as they raise a gavel?”

  James was so unused to being addressed in normal tones by his brother-in-law that he could not frame a reply. Braine had left his seat and come towards them. Both men turned to face him just as the bidding started. “What are you about?” he said, harshly, pushing his purple face close.

  Arthur’s reply was loud enough to stop auctioneer and bidders alike. “How dare you talk to me in that manner, sir. I will not have it. Do not assume that your uniform gives you the right to address a gentleman. You are a low and crooked piece of scum, for all your airs. I shall discover who has your sinecure, and ensure that he finds himself a more amenable deputy.”

  Braine went an even deeper shade of purple at that. He knew that the Ludlows had power in Westminster. But his own certainty soon reasserted itself, for he was on what he saw as his own patch.

  “We’ll see if you’re so cocky when brother Harry is taken up.” If he’d expected consternation at this remark, he was sorely disappointed. James actually yawned in his face. “He’ll be behind bars before noon, an’ up before the Quarter-sessions in Maidstone come Lady Day.”

  “He must talk to you if he desires to plead guilty,” said James. “After all, Mr Braine, you will be able to tell him exactly what to say.”

  “The bidding, James,” said Arthur.

  Braine’s eyes opened wide as soon as James raised his catalogue. He looked from one man to the other, then at the auctioneer, his mouth open as he sought to make sense of their interest. James bid again and the Preventative Officer ran for the door, pushing his way angrily through the crowd.

  No one could outbid James Ludlow, for Harry had been quite specific. “Whatever it takes, James.” Tite, at the window of the Three Kings, right behind the auctioneer, turned and waved as soon as he saw James bid. Harry and the crew ran for the nearest boats. They were aboard before the auctioneer’s gavel hit the block for the last time. Never had going, going, gone, had such a truthful resonance. They were working on raising the anchors by the time James was signing for possession.

  James and Arthur, with Tite, were on the beach by the time the magistrate arrived. He was puffing madly, out of breath, and Braine, who was behind him, was in an even worse state, for he’d run both ways.

  “Stop that ship,” gasped Temple, trying to shout, though to whom was unclear.

  “Whatever for?” asked James.

  “It is being stolen!”

  “I hardly think so, sir. I have just purchased the vessel. If anyone has the right to say it’s being stolen, it is I.”

  Harry kept his head down behind the bulwarks, as he’d promised to do. But in observing the comedy being played out on the shingle of Deal beach, he was sorely tempted to stand up and wave farewell. Both Temple and Braine were dancing around James, waving their arms in protest.

  “Thick and dry,” came the cry from the bows.

  “All hands to make sail,” said Harry, in a voice that would not carry to the shore.

  Harry sailed north to fox his pursuit, purchased some powder and shot in Yarmouth, then retraced his course, heading for the coast of Normandy. The Channel was dangerous for him and Biscay too far away. Obidiah Trench would be tried, and if Arthur did his work in Whitehall, Harry’s pardon would allow him to be witness at his trial. For all the natural pleasure of being at sea, there was too much left unfinished ashore
for him to be really happy. But for the first time, as they sailed south in search of prizes, he had time to hark back, and examine the causes of the trouble which had put him at sea in Trench’s ship.

  It was still not entirely clear why Temple and Braine thought he was a smuggler. Trench could only imagine such a thing because he’d been given false information. It was clear that he’d come after Harry for that reason, not, as he’d previously supposed, to stop him facing a charge of murdering Bertles. Escape from that may have been previously arranged with Temple’s brother, the magistrate, which would explain his laggardly way of dealing with the matter. But even if they’d thrown him Bertles, they had surely not included the entire crew?

  It was when Harry was looking at the papers aboard the Miranda that he remembered the manifest he’d signed for Bertles. He tried hard to recall the details of that fateful dinner. Much came back: Polly Franks’s endemic gaffes; Wentworth and the way he’d behaved towards her; Bertles, filling their glasses to ensure they had a good night’s sleep. That leather folder that he’d opened, plus the details he’d filled in, could have provided the information that had led Trench to both his erroneous conclusions and his house. Perhaps Wentworth’s posters had not been the cause of the attack on Cheyne Court, after all.

  Try as he might, he could not recall if anyone else followed suit. Perhaps that was it. James had followed him out on to the deck of the Planet. It was doubtful if he’d had time. And there had been an unfriendly atmosphere between Franks and Wentworth that could easily have distracted them. If his name was the only one on the manifest, especially with what he’d added as his occupation, then it would be easy for Trench to assume that he was no passenger, but the owner. He’d need to talk to James and the others before he could know if these suppositions were true.

  But that didn’t square with Temple’s behaviour. He had claimed, in his brother’s parlour, that he’d given Trench some information about Bertles’s backer, long before he’d ever heard of Harry. An “unimpeachable source,” he’d said. That had to point to someone other than him. Yet the King of the Smugglers had clearly put that aside in favour of the notion of Harry Ludlow. Why? It was clearly in Temple’s interest to remove the man, for he disliked competition, even if only to mollify Obidiah Trench. Had Trench shown him the manifest, with Harry’s name and address appended, a piece of written evidence that overbore whatever other information he had from his unimpeachable source?

  Nothing but questions, with precious few answers, plus the nagging suspicion that he’d missed something. He needed to place Bertles, still convinced he’d seen him before. Once ashore he could pursue that. And there was still that girl, Bridie Pruitt, whom he’d never had a chance to question. Harry needed the answers to all these things, and not out of curiosity. The only way he could ensure that Temple, powerful and unassailable in Deal, left him and his family alone, was to find the true identity of the man who’d bought Bertles’s ship!

  Harry put the ship about and sailed north, penning his letters in the cabin while the Miranda made for the seaward edge of the Goodwins. He dare not go ashore himself, but he dispatched Patcham in the pinnace, his task to post his two letters, one to James and the other to Major Franks. They backed and filled all day until the pinnace returned, bearing a poster with his name, his alleged crimes, and the price of a hundred guineas for his capture.

  Harry could not consider the implications of that now. He had a ship to sail, an imperfect instrument with a mixed crew. He turned his mind to that at the moment he aimed his bowsprit to the south, and left the other matters to ferment. He was in no position to resolve them at present. They would have to wait till he’d seen Trench swing from the gallows.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  “IT HAS ARRIVED,” said Arthur, reading the letter to his wife over the breakfast table. “Trench is to come up before the judge at the Midsummer Quarter-sessions in Maidstone.”

  “What happened to Lady Day?”

  “I suspect there are too many trials outstanding to attend to first. His has been postponed till the summer session. Besides, this suits us. We should have managed to see off the charges against Harry well before then.”

  “There’s still no word from Major Franks,” said Anne.

  Arthur frowned. “Perhaps we should send someone to Hythe to find out why.”

  “Anything, husband, rather than that dreadful creature be acquitted.”

  “He has James to witness against him, plus Wentworth.”

  “That scrub!” snapped Anne, earning a look of rebuke from her husband for a very unladylike expression. But he could hardly call on her to withdraw, for the young man from Warwickshire had agreed to attend the trial only if his fare was paid and accommodation provided.

  “Perhaps if we can find Major Franks, Wentworth won’t be necessary.”

  “It should be Harry who is at the trial. That creature Trench is not even accused of trying to kill my brother.”

  Arthur pursed his lips. He’d already insisted they draw a veil over the events at Cheyne Court during the months of October and November. Any mention of that time tended to anger him. He adopted a soothing tone, unaware that his wife, who knew him too well, saw it as transparent and false.

  “Harry will be there, dearest. Dundas will see to his pardon long before that. Besides, he will be pleased by the delay. He can stay at sea until the trial, by which time his new ship will be ready.”

  That didn’t mollify her; it made her even more irate. “Grisham is another man whose honesty does not stand the test.”

  Anne was right again. The shipbuilder, without Harry to push him, had put other work before the completion of the ship. Not that his purchaser seemed to mind. He was enjoying himself off the Normandy coast, taking quite a number of prizes. Nothing like his previous success, for they tended to be smaller ships with less lavish cargoes. But enough to more than pay his expenses. There was one off the Downs now and Arthur could conveniently send the message he’d just received back with the returning prize crew.

  He pushed back his chair and headed for the library, making for the large chart which his brother-in-law had left on the wall before he’d fled from Deal. His finger went automatically to the rendezvous that Harry had arranged. To Arthur it looked simple. Cap de la Hague seemed a mere stone’s throw from the south coast of England. The dates were written on the wall by the side of the chart.

  There were grubby finger marks all over it. This upset his fastidious nature and he rubbed at them furiously. It would be Tite, who’d become even more irascible since the action with the Dragon. No doubt he’d been in here, still imagining himself a sailor, and playing with the divider as though he had the ability to set a course for an interception. Arthur, even less of a navigator, was prone to the same himself, so the chart, at the rendezvous point, was peppered with holes punched through the parchment.

  Arthur rubbed at a particularly troublesome stain, wondering what Tite was doing with tar on his fingers. Then he had another thought, which made him frown angrily. Pender’s eldest girl, who asked after her father constantly, might have come in here to seek his whereabouts. Never mind that it was strictly forbidden. She was a bold girl, getting more so as she absorbed her lessons.

  Harry Ludlow would be off the Cap de la Hague on the second Sunday in every month, weather permitting. That also looked simple, for he was hunting along the coast, intercepting ships making for Le Havre and Honfleur. Only a sailor could tell him how difficult it was to guarantee a rendezvous. Arthur would never understand that you needed the wind to get you to the right place. The prevailing westerlies could not be guaranteed. He could never comprehend why anyone trying to meet Harry should wait a whole week before bearing up for a second rendezvous in St Peter Port in Guernsey. There Harry, should he be forced away from the first, would wait out the month before putting to sea again.

  He sat down to write to James and Wentworth, resolved to go to Hythe himself to find out what had become of Major Franks. As he
did so the other letter crackled in the pocket of his watered silk coat. Arthur was avoiding the banker Cantwell. He put all thoughts of his own troubles behind him and concentrated on what had kept him occupied all these years: his job of managing the Ludlow estates.

  February was a terrible month to be sailing these waters, and the Miranda, having already gone through the winter, was beginning to show signs of requiring a thorough refit. She was the only ship that Harry had ever bought blind, and though basically sound she’d had her faults from the very first day. She shipped too much water through the planking, which tended to open up in any kind of sea. Worse, from Harry’s point of view, she disliked guns going off, prepared to spring a sudden leak if he dared even a small, two-cannon broadside. He was reduced to one gun at a time, with a pause to allow the vibrations to settle before he could fire off another. If he ever met a French warship, or even a well-armed privateer with nationalist sentiments, he would have to run. Not that he was in much danger from privateers. Their prey was merchant shipping, not him. He was equally thankful that his patriotism had not been challenged, never having seen an English merchantman in danger.

  The crew were now working smoothly, all the divisions which existed initially submerged by time and the storms they’d been through. Harry had raised Patcham to take a watch. Pender, whose brain was as nimble as his fingers, was learning at an astonishing pace, so that Harry, while he had the watch, was only called to the deck in emergencies. They’d become much closer through necessity. At times he would eat his dinner with Pender, though such intimacy tended to make the man uncomfortable.

  “Sail ho!” cried the voice of the lookout. “Ship’s cutter fine on the larboard bow.”

  “Letters!” cried Harry, leaping up from his desk, where he’d being helping Pender with his navigation.