Hanging Matter

by David Donachie

Pender had long since stopped asking how Harry Ludlow knew things without looking. He accepted without question that it was the Miranda’s pinnace approaching, and followed Harry out of the cabin on to the deck. The sky was grey and overcast, with a stiff breeze coming in over the quarter. The ship was under topsails, with just enough set to keep her sailing slowly round her rendezvous. He saw the glee in Harry’s face, something he couldn’t share, for there would be no letters for him. And he could read, thanks to a kindly cleric in the village where he spent his first ten years. That made him think of his father, who had been forced to seek work in Portsmouth after the land around the village was enclosed. The city had killed both his parents, and he had survived only because he had enough cunning.

  The boat came bumping alongside and the men, fresh from home, were hauled aboard with their sacks of provisions and their bag of mail. Ropes were slung from the yards and the boat was hauled out of the water, with twenty men round the capstan, then set inboard above the waist. Harry had retired to his cabin to read his letters, but he came on deck and called to Pender, who was supervising this operation, insisting that he come back into the cabin.

  “Here,” said Harry, handing him a sealed letter. “It’s addressed to you.”

  Pender took it as though it was a writ, turning it over in his fingers before bending to read it. The writing was as crabbed as his own poor efforts, but it plainly stated that it was addressed to P. Pender, aboard the ship Miranda. He looked at the sealing wax, but being plain there was nothing to identify the source. He tore it open. The writing inside was no better than the address, with many words scratched, and to his mind misspelt. But it was from his Jenny, giving him news of herself and the other two children. Pender reckoned he was immune to emotion, but he turned away from his captain, lest Harry see the tears in the corners of his eyes.

  Harry had opened James’s letter first, and the contents of that only served to underscore his own impression of the seat of his problems. There was much about doings in town, fashions, fads, the war, and who was bedding whom. But it was the section referring to events on the Planet that engaged his total concentration.

  Signing Bertles’s manifest was not something I saw as requiring urgent attention. After all, we did not anticipate being slung off the ship in the middle of the night. I would have heartily complied next morning, but that was not to be. As to the actions of our fellow passengers, I am as much in the dark as you.

  Harry then turned to the letter from Arthur. “Damn!” he cried, dispelling all thoughts of home and beauty. “They’re not going to try Trench till the summer.”

  “What about pardons?” asked Pender, which to him, was much more to the point.

  Harry scanned the letter before looking up. “They are yet to come, but Arthur seems confident. I had hoped for the Lady Day quarter-sessions. The Miranda needs a refit.”

  Arthur shot out of his chair, with a look on his face that quite terrified his wife. “They’ve brought Trench’s case forward to Lady Day.”

  “That’s next week,” said Anne.

  Arthur bit his lip to avoid telling her that he was well aware of the date. “And the trial has been moved from Maidstone to Lewes.”

  “Why?”

  “I cannot be certain. But it would be safe to conjecture that a Sussex jury will be more sympathetic to Trench than one from Kent. I must write to James, at once.”

  He was out of the room before Anne could say a word. She felt the child move in her belly, as though it too was alarmed by the news.

  “No jury from around Lewes will convict him of smuggling, Arthur, any more than twelve Deal men would send down someone like Temple.”

  “He is charged with murder, James.”

  James looked grim, with good reason. “Which will only bring him down if he’s positively identified by more than one person. With Franks in Gibraltar we are stuck with one hope.”

  “Wentworth!”

  “He’s not someone I’d want to rest my case on.”

  Arthur hit the mantelpiece with the flat of his hand. “Harry could not possibly get here on time, even if his pardon was through.”

  “Send to Wentworth. Tell him that we will pay him to attend.”

  “How much?”

  “Whatever he asks, Arthur. We can’t risk Trench walking free from the court. If he does, all our lives will be at risk.”

  “Can Temple help?”

  “Never in life, sir,” cried Temple, leaning forward to reveal the lettering on his chair. IN NOCTE POSSUMUS. James read it as the Smuggler King continued. Being “Motto Latin” it was not a phrase he was familiar with, but he translated it as “In possession of the night.” “I’m surprised you dare to walk through the door, sir, let alone demand my assistance.”

  “It was not a demand, Mr Temple, but a request.”

  “Two demands, sir. The answer is no to both. I will not go anywhere near the Lewes Assizes, and I will most certainly not ask Braine or the magistrate to withdraw the charges against your brother.”

  James discarded his polite demeanour, for it was getting him nowhere. “He is no more a smuggler than I am, Mr Temple, which you know very well.”

  Temple’s eyes narrowed and he pursed his thin bloodless lips. “I cannot fathom why you deny it. We had an inkling where the money came from to buy Bertles’s ship before he ever set sail, though I grant you we lacked an actual name. Your brother tried to put us off the scent but Trench himself produced written evidence.”

  “You saw this evidence?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Was this evidence, by any chance, written on the Planet’s manifest?” The smuggler’s eyes narrowed, as though the information was secret. “Mr Temple, I would point out to you that had we not been put off the ship my name would have been listed there, along with several others.”

  “I have other information, sir,” Temple replied loftily.

  “If your information points to my brother, then it is clearly false.”

  “You would not say that if you knew its source. Unimpeachable, sir, is scarcely a strong enough expression. A man should be careful whom he beds.”

  “Beds?”

  “If you do not know the answer to that, then I should question your brother, for I will answer no more on the subject.”

  “I cannot contend this with you, sir, since you will not listen to either truth or reason. Nor will you speak plain. But mark this. If Trench is free, you stand in as much danger as we do.”

  “Never fear, Mr Ludlow. I can take care of myself.” Temple laughed deep in his throat and his hand went out to tap the creature beside him. “I might even set old Cephas Quested on him.”

  James turned to look at the former batman, whose head lolled on his shoulders, while a thin stream of spittle dribbled from his slack mouth, running into the base of his great white scar. Temple was still chuckling as he patted the man, who’d never recovered from the effect of Pender’s boots. The shoulders were rounded now, instead of square, and the eyes roved far away.

  “I thank your brother for this. He’s much more scarifying than a dead man. If anyone even thinks of betraying me, I tell them they’ll end up like Quested …”

  The court was full to the rafters, echoing with ceaseless chattering, making the case for the prosecution difficult. Not that it mattered, for no one seemed inclined to listen. Wentworth was bellowing his evidence in an attempt to make himself heard. The judge, Lord Justice Aspinall, was paying scant attention. Trench wasn’t even present and the dock was empty, a privilege that should never have been extended to a man on a capital charge.

  That had led to the first argument between Aspinall and Crown counsel, Emerson, since the barrister from Lord Thurlow’s department had seen fit to complain at the absence of the accused. The judge, who had a ferocious beaked nose, the only feature prominent enough to protrude from his full-bottomed wig, held up his hand. Immediate silence ensued while he asked if counsel required his permission to invite a friend to dinner. Eme
rson shook his head.

  “Then kindly do not tell me who I should have in my court, sir,” shouted Aspinall, to tumultuous applause. “Proceed with the case.”

  The hand went up again when Wentworth mentioned money, this time to defence counsel. The court fell silent as Aspinall leant forward, his wig nearly touching his bench. The voice was silky and wheedling, like a man who distracts your attention while he raids your purse.

  “Am I to understand …” Aspinall waved his hand in a helpless way. “What is your name, sir?”

  “Wentworth, milord.”

  “Well, Mr Wentworth. Tell the court again, in the same words you’ve just used, how you came to be here.”

  “My presence was requested by Mr James Ludlow, with the promise that I should be paid for any expenses I incurred, or losses I suffered in my business.”

  “Paid, sir. You say you are here to send a man to the gallows, and that you were paid!” The judge threw his head back, so that all could see his gaunt face, with the eyes wide open in disbelief. The court erupted in a cacophony of abuse. The hand went up again and silence fell. “I must say, Mr Wentworth, that the jury will know full well how to take the testimony of a man who was paid!”

  James and Arthur exchanged glances. It was clear that Aspinall was directing the jury. Emerson threw up his hands in despair as the noise started again, making the task of refuting that direction impossible. Finally, after several attempts, he gave up and dismissed Wentworth. The young man gave James and Arthur a filthy look as he went by, as though they were the authors of his ordeal.

  James was called next. The mere mention of his name was occasion for another bout of yelling. As he was swearing the oath, a rotten cabbage hit him on the back of the head. He spun to look at the judge, only to find that Aspinall was looking the other way. Jeers followed this, but the noise died away as he gave his evidence. He recounted meeting Bertles and what had happened off the French coast. The judge’s eyes rolled in theatrical disbelief at his claim of innocence in the matter of smuggling. Emerson carried on bravely.

  “Now, Mr Ludlow. It is common practice in a court of law to call upon a witness to search the court and point out the man accused. I cannot ask you to do this, since the man is not present. But the information laid against him makes him quite distinctive. Please be so good as to describe him to us.”

  The court went totally silent. No one even whispered. “He is about the same height as I, but much broader. He has an unusually high-pitched voice and a great black beard which covers most of his face.”

  “What,” snapped Aspinall, his wig quivering. “Is this man you describe supposed to be Obidiah Trench?”

  “He most certainly is,” said James emphatically.

  It was timed to perfection, as though Emerson was as much a part of the charade as the judge. A man stepped into the dock. He was clean shaven, with a non-existent chin. What passed for that appendage seemed to slip straight from his lower lip to his neck, giving him, with his protruding top teeth, the appearance of a particularly stupid donkey. The skin was scarred and pink, evidence that there had once been a serious wound to the face and neck. James wondered if that accounted for the voice.

  “A great black beard, you say.” James nodded uncertainly. “That covered most of his face?”

  “Who is the man in the dock?” demanded Emerson.

  “There’s no pleasing some people. First you complain that he isn’t there, now you’re upset because he is. That, sir, is Obidiah Trench.”

  Whatever sound had gone before was as nothing to what came now. Every voice in the court was raised in screeching, derisive laughter. Then Aspinall raised his hand again, bringing silence, his eyes, shaded by his wig, fully on James.

  “And what, sir, do you have to say now?”

  James knew it was hopeless. The whole thing was rigged. He’d never get Trench for murder. He felt his temper rise, and though he fought to control it, he did not succeed.

  “I think, sir, that you are a disgrace to the robes you wear. It may be in order for lawyers to suffer your taunts, but I will not, for one minute longer. You are corrupt, milord, and when you meet your maker, He will exact retribution for your sins.”

  “You do not lack foolhardiness, Mr Ludlow. Has anyone ever told you that it is dangerous to insult a judge in his court?”

  Arthur was waving his hand, trying to get James to shut up. But his blood was up, and nothing would silence him. “It is more dangerous to insult justice, sir, which is the course you’ve set.”

  “I agree that you will not have to suffer my taunts a moment longer.” The voice rose suddenly, and Aspinall’s finger shot out accusingly. “You will suffer them for 24 hours. In the stocks, sir. And may the good people of this town still your impudent tongue.”

  A great cheer rent the air. Two court ushers rushed forward and pinned his arms to his side. Arthur and Emerson were on their feet, protesting violently, but neither could be heard over the din as James Ludlow was hustled out of the court. The ritual was played out, with the prosecution admitting they had no more witnesses, while the defence produced none. The summations were brief and noisy, but quiet came when Aspinall asked the jury if they wished to retire to consider their verdict.

  “Retire, milord,” said the foreman, standing up. “I see no need for that. The accused is a man of some standing in this town, an honest citizen, falsely accused. Obidiah Trench is plainly innocent, and I would enter a plea that the warrants relating to smuggling could bear examination, since they were clearly as malicious as the capital charge.”

  “The warrants have been cancelled,” replied Aspinall, picking up a paper and reading it. “Withdrawn by a magistrate named Temple, and an exciseman called Braine.”

  There was a lengthy pause while the judge looked round the court. Finally his eyes came back to the foreman. “Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?”

  “Not” was the only word Arthur heard, as another yell rent the air, this time full of hats thrown in jubilation.

  Arthur stood beside James at one end of the town square, using his hand to deflect the odd object thrown by a passer-by. His brother-in-law was bent over, his head and his hands through the holes in the wood.

  “Temple has bought Trench off by cancelling the charges of smuggling. The man is free to go where he pleases.”

  James had his eyes shut as he replied. “I doubt it will be long before he heads this way.”

  “I’m sorry, James …”

  Arthur didn’t get a chance to finish, for James cut across him. “I’m here because of my tongue, Arthur, not yours.”

  The swelling noise spoke of a crowd heading their way. James twisted his eyes as best he could, but it was Arthur who first spotted Trench. The man hadn’t even spoken in court. That means of identification had never been put to the test. But he spoke now, his high-pitched voice full of venomous humour, which lost none of its impact for his ridiculous appearance.

  “Well, now. Here we have a man that wanted to see me swing.” He turned to the crowd. “Do you think I should have sport with him, lads?”

  The square filled with affirmative shouts. Trench held up his hand. “I find, lads, it don’t do, to take on the stocks on an empty stomach. Nor should we chuck at cocky here what we might want to eat. So I says we have our celebration first, then deal with this turd later.”

  He had to hold up both hands to silence them now. “Then we are agreed. Dinner first, sport after.”

  Trench turned round and leant down till his face was at the same level as James’. “You’ve quite a pretty face, cocky. But it won’t be much longer, for when my mates are full of drink, I doubt they’ll just be throwing cabbage. They’ll cut you open with stones and fill the holes with dung. I doubt you’ll keep your eyes, so I should pray that one of them uses a stone too big to stand, one that splits your brains.”

  Arthur put a hand on Trench and pushed him back. Some of his cronies started forward at this, but he restrained them easily.
Then he tugged at Arthur’s silk coat.

  “You don’t count, mate, for all your silk.”

  “I count enough,” said Arthur, struggling to sound suitably aggressive. “Harm James Ludlow and I will kill you. That is if his brother doesn’t beat me to it.”

  “Oh, yes. Mr Smuggler Thief himself.”

  “He’s …”

  “Dead, mate!” shouted Trench. “He has my ship, an’ I’m going to take it back off him.”

  “You won’t,” said James, from beneath them. “He’ll find you, long before you find him.”

  Trench crouched down again. “Is that a fact? Well, I have my bargain with Temple, which I shall keep. Second Sunday in every month at Cap de la Hague, ain’t it, with St Peter’s Port as a fallback.”

  Arthur almost squeaked, he was so shocked. “How do you know that?”

  Trench stood up. The man was grinning at him, and nodding, his top teeth a good two inches further out than his lower lip. And Arthur was thinking of those marks on the chart in Harry’s study. Not Tite, not Pender’s girl, but one of Temple’s men, with tar on his fingers.

  Trench turned and called for his band to follow him.

  “Come on, lads. Let’s eat and drink. And no pissin’ in the yard, either. I want you save it up so’s we can see how we’re doin’ when we come to deal with Ludlow here. Got to have somethin’ to wash the blood away!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  ARTHUR, now back at the inn, sat in the wing chair, his mind racing to find another way out of this dilemma. Living at Cheyne Court these last years had made him soft. Everything had come too easily and the ambition which had driven him as a younger man had evaporated. Now he was on the brink of breaking the mould. Fatherhood was imminent and that fact had spurred him to reconsider his position. London beckoned, with all the associations of wealth and privilege which that image conjured up. He was sure of that, even if he arrived penniless. Dundas would help him to prosper. The road would be hard but he would have freedom, the liberty to undertake only those burdens he wished to shoulder. That might include the Ludlow patrimony, but if it did, it would be voluntary.