‘Like me, you mean?’ Will chortled.
The gentleman smiled. The corners of his pale-blue eyes crinkled. It was not for nothing he was known as Charming Charlie Grant. He lit a candle, illuminating his immaculately chosen suit and the swathe of freckles that he was sure kept him looking young despite the sprinkling of grey overtaking his pale ginger hair.
‘My dear boy . . .’ His voice trailed. ‘We cannot keep replacing captain after captain.’
‘London isn’t short of a captain or two. I’ll ask around,’ Will said breezily.
Charlie Grant shook his head. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that’s where we’ve been going wrong. You’re very efficient at disposing of our problems, but it’s no use trying the same thing over and over and having the same trouble. We need to change.’
Before Grant could elaborate, the conversation was interrupted by the thump of the main door. The men’s eyes met and Will reached for his knife. Grant stood up, cane in hand, seeming nonchalant but poised in case he had to fight. He placed himself in front of the table so that its contents couldn’t be seen from the door. The gentlemen who entered were dapper.
‘Fisher.’ Grant nodded, relaxing. ‘Hayward. You’re early.’
‘Later than you,’ Fisher pointed out.
Hayward took a light from the fire, puffing on a thick cigar. ‘Mr Simmons,’ he said. ‘You brought our parcel?’
Simmons nodded.
‘Good,’ Hayward continued smoothly as he settled into his chair. ‘Drink?’ he offered, his voice crisp with upper-class authority.
‘I’m fine, thank you.’
Grant assumed a position in the centre. ‘So, Will’s view is that we are in need of a new captain. There has been a recurrence of the old trouble.’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll make some enquiries at Greenwich.’
The men moved, and Will sensed a ripple folding beneath the surface of the room. He realised that they had discussed this.
‘The thing is, Simmons, you’re a good man.’ Hayward handed Will a glass, though he had declined.
‘We liked your father,’ Fisher continued seamlessly, ‘and we like you.’
Simmons shifted. He hesitated before drinking. In general, the Old Street Bridge Club was a practical organisation and Will was wary of praise. He knew from experience, if you plan to kill a man it’s easier if he isn’t expecting it.
Charlie Grant laid his hand on Simmons’ss shoulder. He laughed. ‘We’re not after you, man. God, no. In fact,’ he continued, ‘we have a proposition. A promotion, you might say.’
Simmons hoped they weren’t going to send him north. He’d never been to Scotland, but he knew the gentlemen had business there. The coastal towns of the East Neuk were as famous as those of Cornwall for assisting the representatives of gentlemen such as the Old Street Bridge Club to avoid His Majesty’s Customs and Excise. God knew how many of these schemes the men had running. He’d heard rumours of Italian wine and treasures from India. For an English gentleman of both vision and means, the wide world lay open-handed.
‘Where do you want me to go?’ the boy asked.
‘We’re expanding,’ Fisher replied. ‘Why should we let these captains know, as we previously have done, that these small packages are so valuable? There’s no need to alert anyone to the matter of our . . .’ Here he hesitated. Even in their own company, the members of the Old Street Bridge Club were habitually circumspect. ‘Little treasures. It only makes the captains wary. Naturally they wonder, and wondering makes a chap greedy. The source of our recent troubles – all that wondering. We are only additional income there for the taking, or so they think. So we’ve decided to finance the whole trip. It’ll make the fellows less suspicious.’
Simmons’ss mind boggled. They had been bringing over a block every six months – how were they going to find enough of the stuff to justify an entire vessel, and what made the chocolate so damn special, anyway? Charlie Grant was evidently enjoying reading the boy’s expression.
‘We’ll charter a ship to bring over beans. Cacao. It’s a compatible cargo and shouldn’t arouse any suspicions. The chocolate market is growing in London. Two new manufactories this year, to say nothing of the apothecaries who trade in the stuff. A cargo of decent chocolate beans is worth more than a hold full of spirits and it’s less likely to be pilfered. We’ll bring it in at Cornwall, the way we’ve been doing with our other stock. You run it up to town and we’ll sell it at a profit, and a good profit at that – enough to cut in the captain.’ He paused for effect. ‘The packet, of course, is different. It will come with you and will be between us alone. The captain will know nothing about it.’
‘It’ll come with me?’
‘Aye.’
‘You want me to . . .’ Simmons hesitated as the enormity of what the gentlemen were suggesting dawned. He had never been beyond British waters except one brief visit to Ireland. Will was not a natural sailor. He had heaved up his guts from port to port. In fact, for some months after the trip he had had nightmares about sailing out of sight of the shore and woken in his box bed in a panic.
Grant hardly skipped a beat. ‘That’s right. The Brazils. You’ll pick up the packet from our contact and charter a ship home. We need a captain who’s a rogue but not an outright vagabond. You must find him.’
‘We cannot keep up all this killing, m’boy,’ Fisher said very definitely, as if he were discussing the management of fish stocks on his estate. ‘You’ll get caught sooner or later, Will, however good you are. And it’s getting trickier. You’ll have seen the fliers along the new docks offering rewards for information. We don’t want to see you hung. That’s no help to anybody.’
Charlie Grant put it delicately. ‘This way, you go into business. It’s a step up – your father would have liked that, wouldn’t he?’
Simmons shrugged. His father had died three years before and had been a smuggler from the age of eleven. All his life he had had great respect for the trade of dodging excise. ‘They might have the money, but we have the skill,’ he had often said. The Old Street Bridge Club, however, was unaware of the revolutionary views of Mr Simmons Senior.
Charlie Grant continued. ‘The captain will have no reason to suspect anything, so your undoubted skills with the knife will be spared. The cargo will run in your name. Triple our money, cut in the captain and the rest is yours. By my calculations you’ll make a tidy sum, more than worth the effort, and you won’t have to put up a penny. On top, we’ll pay you the usual fee for bringing us what we’re really after. If it works, instead of one brick of chocolate, we may ship half a dozen. The route hasn’t been reliable enough to justify the risk till now, but you can change that, Will.’
Simmons blanched. It was a generous offer. ‘I cannot sail,’ he stammered.
Charlie Grant refilled the boy’s glass and affected his most charming smile. ‘Why there’s nothing to it, my dear fellow. Others do the sailing. You merely sit aboard.’
Hayward took a small leather pouch from his pocket. It clinked as it landed squarely in Simmons’ss hand.
‘And nothing to lead back to us,’ Fisher said, his voice laden with threat. ‘You must be sure of that.’ Smuggling, after all, was a capital offence. ‘We’ll back you all the way, but if you shaft us—’
‘Now, now, gentlemen.’ Charlie Grant stepped in. ‘We’ve been working with Will for a while. He knows the score. You’d never let us down, would you, Will? And Brazil, you lucky fellow – the doe-eyed beauties of Rio Grande do Norte. The dark-skinned lovelies of São Luís . . . Natal is a young fellow’s paradise.’
The gentlemen laughed.
‘You’ll like it, really you will.’ Hayward smiled.
Simmons felt a rush of anger. His eyes flashed. ‘What if I don’t want to?’ he said.
The gentlemen looked momentarily nonplussed. Charlie Grant turned to fetch more port and Hayward shifted in his seat. Simmons didn’t notice Fisher, who moved like lightning, cutting behind. The boy’s reactions simply were
n’t fast enough as Fisher snared a vermillion silk cord round his neck. As Simmons struggled against the garrotte, Charlie Grant looked distressed. Hayward stared into the fire. Will’s face was turning purple when his hand finally found his knife, but it was hopeless. Grant laconically disarmed him from a distance, bringing down the elegant walking stick mercilessly with a bone-shattering crash. Will wanted to cry out, but his scream died with a gurgle. Then, just as the boy thought he was done for, Fisher let him go and Will collapsed onto the thin boards, gasping for breath and expecting one of them to end him. The gentlemen, however, returned calmly to their places as if nothing had happened.
Fisher lit a cigar. ‘The Old Street Bridge Club doesn’t brook argument on this kind of matter,’ he said.
Charlie Grant offered Simmons a hand, hauling him to his feet. ‘Really, my boy, we know what’s best.’
Simmons spluttered. His hand was agony. He knew the gentlemen were vicious. You couldn’t get to where they were in the trade and not spill a decent pool of blood. His heart sank as he put his good hand to his throat. That must be how it feels, he thought, when a fellow swings. At least he knew the men would be true to their word about the money. They might be dangerous old bastards, but they paid well. Charlie Grant turned over Simmons’s knife in his hand. That’d be irony all right, Will’s mind flashed, to be stabbed with my own blade.
‘I’ll give it a go,’ he managed to get out.
Grant nodded. ‘Good. You’ve been working with Pearson, haven’t you? It’s about time the lad was given more responsibility. He’ll take over your current position.’
Simmons nodded reluctantly. Sam Pearson was nearly nineteen. A long-bodied, red-haired risk taker, he would relish the promotion. Solid in a fight and tricky enough for the job, his slow West Country accent belied a sharp mind, absolute loyalty and a ferocious disposition. He’d had also been stepping out with a girl from Budock Water. If he was planning to marry, the extra money might suit him.
‘I’ll talk to him.’ He ran nervous fingers through his blond hair as he rose, bundling the money into his pocket. ‘When I’ve sounded him out, I’ll show him the ropes – the ones he doesn’t know yet. Up this end of things.’
‘Tell Pearson to call next week,’ Fisher replied, as if he were issuing an invitation to dinner.
Will bid the gentlemen a dazed goodbye and shambled towards the door.
‘Here,’ Grant said, handing over the knife. ‘It’s dangerous out there.’
The men remained silent until they heard the boy’s steady gait on the street. Hayward lit a cigar.
‘Really. Doe-eyed beauties,’ he said, eyeing Grant. ‘Dark-skinned lovelies . . .’
‘I had to encourage the lad.’ Grant shrugged.
‘Yes, indeed. I was only thinking of my wife.’
‘Trouble, old man?’
‘She thinks I have a mistress. She says I’m so very intent she can’t imagine what else I’d be up to. She has a jealous nature.’
Fisher let out a crack of laughter like a whip. ‘My dear fellow,’ he said, ‘I’m sure Mrs Fisher sighs with relief when I take it upon myself to dally elsewhere. Besides, better the ladies suspect that than the truth. Poor woman thinks, no doubt, that you fund her famous outfits from the proceeds of your land and some luck at the races. Buy jewellery – always my advice. Copious jewellery has kept Mrs Fisher happy for years. Indian rubies are all the rage. I’d find her a nice necklace, if I were you,’ he said, folding the scarlet cord into his pocket.
Charlie Grant stood up. He found himself ill at ease on the subject of the opposite sex. He had other proclivities, but he didn’t indulge them. His private life was a locked cupboard, its contents a mystery even to himself.
‘Time for the off,’ he announced. ‘I’m glad we didn’t have to kill the boy. I’ve become fond of him. Fisher, would you?’ He handed over the package.
‘Leave it with me. I have a buyer.’
‘And a cup of chocolate for breakfast, gentlemen,’ Hayward slipped in slyly, ever the wag.
‘I expect Simmons will come round,’ Fisher mused.
Charlie Grant examined the silver head of his cane for damage. Only once before had they disposed of a courier. It had not been a pleasant business. Still, the Old Street Bridge Club’s network of well-paid informants and contacts meant that they generally got what they wanted. Simmons had no chance of getting away, particularly if he wasn’t prepared to get on a ship, and even then it was only a matter of alerting the right people, offering a reward and waiting. The Old Street Bridge Club indulged itself in the luxury of taking the long view. It was an institution in its third generation.
Fisher shrugged. ‘He’ll be fine. He may even come to like the life. He’ll certainly like the additional funds. Sometimes these fellows simply need to be taken in hand.’
The others nodded and reached for their hats. Fisher scattered a pack of cards across the baize table. Grant dropped a couple of scoring cards on the floor. Then, leaving the candles and the fire alight, they left the fug of their offices and proceeded as usual through the needle-sharp winter air back to the safety of their well-aired West End beds.
2
Brazilian interior
Maria lingered amid the overgrown vegetation. One of the mules had become mired in mud. The men had been trying to save it for almost an hour. The poor animal was up to its flanks and already exhausted; its neck was a dark, glossy slick of sweat, its eyes flashing in terror. Maria sniffed. The jungle smelled of earth, plants and long-dead animals. Last month there had been flooding in these lowlands, but the water had subsided, leaving only dark ambient pools between which the men hacked a soggy path through the undergrowth. The sheer weight of the air muffled sound. It lay on the lungs like a sodden flannel, a tsunami of heat cut only by thick green foliage studded with poison. The minute you entered this place, everything you brought with you started to rot. Still, despite the difficult terrain, Maria had to admit the jungle had a strange if overwhelming beauty that seemed lost on da Couto, the gruff, dark-eyed diplomat who had been sent to accompany her.
Brazil had been more complicated than she had expected, to say nothing of the journey to get there – a jumble of shallow-bottomed boat trips up wide, muddy rivers and trains of dusty horses crossing parched desert. No sooner had she arrived than the nationalist uprising got underway, miring the country in a vicious civil war. In the upheaval, Rio’s high society had welcomed Mrs Graham and in short order she had been introduced to the Empress. Her Majesty was an elegant and intelligent woman with an interest in botany. She was familiar with Maria’s book about India and immediately asked the Englishwoman to become tutor to her daughter, Maria da Gloria, the Princess Royal. The heir to the throne was not long out of nappies. The Empress chose her words with care. It was, after all, a friendship born of only a few weeks’ acquaintance. Still, she liked the look of this solid Englishwoman with impeccable manners, and she needed help.
‘A lady such as yourself will endow my daughter with a restrained view of the world. I want her to see things. I want her to be educated, Mrs Graham.’
Even for royal ladies, an education beyond the simple matter of music and art was not a given.
Maria had nodded. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I understand.’
The court had resented Maria’s appointment. She was a foreigner after all, even if England was an ally. The Empress, however, ignored the murmurings and quickly Mrs Graham found herself fond of the little princess – a plump, smiling infant whose first words had been in English. They played hide-and-seek in the royal gardens and Maria started the princess’s botanical education by making garlands of lawn daisies to wreath her little bed. Much to her mother’s delight, Maria taught the little girl to lisp the Latin name of the pretty flowers: Bellis perennis.
‘There is court etiquette of course,’ Maria said to the Empress, ‘and that must be observed, but I should hate the princess to lose her early years. A happy childhood is an education in itself.�
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It was an education that Maria’s own childhood had lacked. Young Maria Dundas had been removed from her mother’s care at a tender age. Mrs Dundas had been deemed unsuitable by the family, or at least not aristocratic enough for the responsibility of bringing up its next generation. She was erratic. Maria recalled the arguments, or what she had overheard of them. The marriage had been a love match, and when Captain Dundas’s love had died he left for Bombay and entrusted his daughter to Lady Dundas, his haughty sister-in-law. She had proved a formidable guardian. Unpleasant and calculating. When Maria was twenty-three, at last old enough to do so, she had joined her father in India. She had been travelling ever since.
The Empress hugged her newly appointed governess and smiled. ‘My daughter is in hands that are both safe and wise. I prayed for an upright woman. A good woman. And God has answered.’
In due course, Mrs Graham was given leave to return to London to buy books and materials for her new charge. She kissed the little girl goodbye as if she were a cousin or a niece. With no children of her own, the connection had been immediate. Maria had pointed out England on the globe in the schoolroom and the little one spun it round with her plump fingers. Maria told the girl that the most difficult part of her journey would be the crossing of the Atlantic. ‘This part, the blue,’ she said, pointing it out. ‘Blue,’ the little princess lisped. Azul. Celeste.
Now, covered in mud with the thick air pressing down on her, that conversation seemed a world away. And Maria realised that she had miscalculated. The green was going to be far more difficult. It struck her as ironic that somewhere in her baggage there was a vial of scent – a royal parting gift that was composed of orchid oil and musk. It had been days since she had been able to wash, let alone preen herself with oils and unguents. It will be a while yet, she thought, before fragrance becomes possible.
The perfume was not the only royal gift in Maria’s possession. She was also carrying a communiqué addressed to Admiral Cochrane, the Brazilian navy’s commander – a renegade Englishman who had been a confidant of Maria’s husband. Her orders from the Empress were clear.
On Starlit Seas Page 2