‘You do what I tell you or I’ll fix your other knee,’ Grant hissed. ‘Now tell me everything, boy. Every single bloody detail. Now.’
22
Further to the west
Henderson strolled up Piccadilly as the light faded and the bells struck eight. Outside the grand houses, lamps were being lit, throwing dim shadows along the stone and brick frontages. The pale evening fog was heavier here than further downstream. It settled over the city, curling up the river and into town, its tendrils nestling around the buildings and seeping into Henderson’s clothes. Gentlemen in evening dress strolled past purposefully, and now and then a big-wheeled carriage rumbled by. At least it wasn’t cold. He’d expected worse. The captain lit his pipe and stopped at Albemarle Street, making sure the shag caught light.
‘Number 50,’ he murmured.
The residence of John Murray – a tall house of Portland stone, its slate roof all but obscured by the fog. Henderson looked up. The curtains were drawn, but along the rims of the windows a line of warm light framed the glass and, if he was not mistaken, a shadow passed – someone was inside. Henderson puffed meditatively. It was late to make a call uninvited and he had no cards, but perhaps a mention of Maria might serve that function. He hoped she might even be inside. When she had talked of Murray’s salon her eyes had lit up – something that had not transpired, he noticed, when they had discussed her marriage. It seemed that Albemarle Street was the centre of things.
He crossed the road and knocked. A tall butler opened the door and peered into the darkness.
‘Captain Henderson for John Murray.’
The man hovered, the hallway behind him lit by two ornately detailed candelabra that, it occurred to the captain, must be French.
‘Is Mr Murray expecting you, sir?’
‘No,’ Henderson admitted. ‘Mrs Graham suggested I call. Is he in?’
‘I will enquire.’
The door closed and Henderson drew deeply on his pipe. The fog was growing thicker so that the fanlight over the door became only a vague blotch of obscured yellow. On the street behind him, he could hear footsteps ringing on the stone. He caught sight of an indistinct outline now and then, of men passing or a message boy scurrying along, mumbling under his breath. Henderson collected his thoughts.
Maria had intimated that Murray would be interested in his botanical knowledge. To this end, the captain decided he would offer the publisher a treatise on the cultivation of the cacao bean. Henderson had hardly put pen to paper since his teenage years. The letter he had written to Maria in Natal was his first missive in a long time. Still, that had been successful and Maria was right – over the years he had amassed a great deal of botanical information. He need only apply himself to write it down. It shouldn’t be too tiresome an exercise, especially if it got him what he wanted. The captain knocked out his pipe and put it in his pocket, ready to enter. The door opened again, this time with a creak.
‘Sir?’ the butler enquired, the yellow light not illuminating as far as the edge of the step where Henderson was hovering.
‘I’m here.’
‘Mr Murray will see you. Come in.’
Inside, unexpectedly, it felt like hallowed ground. The hallway had an air of reverence. Murray, after all, published the nation’s cognoscenti. The most august writers in the world had passed through this entrance and been ushered upstairs. No wonder it was grand, the staircase rising in an elegant sweep, skirted by its banister and set about with ornate wooden newel posts. The house smelled of leather bindings and melting butter. Henderson tried not to think of the poetry of Lord Byron or, indeed, any other famous Murray author, as the butler led him upstairs. Surely if Maria could manage to be part of this world, so could he.
Miraculously, it seemed, the door at the end of the landing opened onto a high-ceilinged, opulent yellow drawing room where an old man in evening dress rose to greet the captain as if it was a dream. The warm light burst in sharp contrast to the dim fog outside and immediately made everything so vivid that it was almost shocking. Henderson took in the huge oil portrait over the mantelpiece and a wall of leather-bound books before which a walnut desk was covered with manuscripts that practically dripped onto the Oriental carpet. Henderson had the sensation that he was struggling to breathe – almost as if he was drowning, not in water but in a strange mixture of ink, tradition and good manners.
‘Captain Henderson is it?’ The man stepped forward. ‘I am John Murray, sir. This is my wife.’
Henderson bowed. ‘James Henderson,’ he intoned, moving his attention to the woman – grey-haired and, like her husband, well dressed and unassuming. It would appear that the couple were spending the evening alone. ‘I’m sorry to call so late.’
‘But you have news of Mrs Graham?’
Henderson shifted. ‘I had hoped, sir, she might be here.’
‘Here?’ Murray was mystified. ‘You mean in my house?’
Mrs Murray shifted in her seat.
‘Yes. I parted from Mrs Graham in Bristol five days ago. She had expected to make London before me and declared she would come to you directly.’
‘She is in England?’ Murray’s smile was warmer than the fire that crackled in the grate. ‘You are a friend of Mrs Graham, then, sir?’
Henderson nodded. ‘I captained the ship which brought her home.’
‘Captain, you must sit down. This is capital news, isn’t it, my dear? Would you like something to drink, sir? A brandy? A glass of port?’
Henderson paused. ‘A brandy,’ he said, unsteadily.
‘Please sit,’ Murray insisted, indicating a wide sofa with ochre cushions and gilded wooden arms that, the captain supposed, could not possibly be comfortable.
‘She should be here,’ the captain repeated, all thought of chocolate beans, recognition at the Royal Society or, indeed, writing a book suddenly evaporating. ‘I don’t understand. She was determined on London and quit Bristol by carriage. She has been working on two manuscripts.’
‘Two?’ Murray’s face lit up. ‘She did it then. Brazil and Chile. She wrote it was her intention, but she has them completed, eh? Well, well.’
‘You don’t understand, sir. Five days is too long from Bristol. I sailed into London. Mrs Graham left before me by coach. She should have arrived.’
Murray handed him a tumbler filled with amber brandy and settled next to his wife, who shielded her face from the fire with her fan as she perused the captain silently. The publisher did not appear anxious and continued with jollity. ‘We can only surmise that there has been some kind of delay.’
Henderson sipped. The journey from Bristol to the capital was one hundred and twenty miles by his reckoning, and the road was not especially hazardous. Such an itinerary could be completed in one day, if driven hard with a horse and a determined rider. Passenger coaches generally took it easier, for they were concerned with comfort. The Bristol Rocket stopped overnight twice before rolling into the centre of town. That Mrs Graham had not arrived ahead of the Bittersweet was inconceivable. Henderson gulped the brandy.
‘Do you happen to know, sir, where the Bristol coach stages to? I mean, where its journey ends?’
The old man considered carefully. Though there were several coaching inns less than a mile from where he was now sitting, John Murray rarely left the capital. Still, he dispatched boxes of books to literary establishments all over the country. That, however, involved knowing how to leave London, not how to arrive.
‘The Golden Cross is the inn in these parts. It’s at Charing Cross – anyone will point it out. London is not short of coaching inns, Captain Henderson. The most famous is in Islington, but that is the wrong part of town. I imagine that coming from the west into the centre it must be the Golden Cross,’ Murray decided. ‘However, I shouldn’t exert yourself, my dear fellow. Maria is famously unassailable. I doubt any harm has come to her on a journey from Bristol. The coach will have a broken wheel. It is not uncommon. Or perhaps she has run into good company. Let’
s hope that, shall we?’
Henderson laid down his glass. ‘I will feel better for checking.’ He rose.
Mrs Murray nodded and Mr Murray sprang to his feet more quickly than might be expected of a gentleman of his age. He looked perplexed. The captain was a curious fellow. A day or two in a matter of travel was nothing. Though perhaps the truth was that he was not comfortable in the company of a publisher – Murray knew the milieu of silver-spooned artists and scientists in his salon was not to everyone’s taste, and despite the fact Henderson had called when the Murrays were alone, Albemarle Street had become quite famous. The captain might be intimidated.
‘Man of action, eh? Well, thank you for bringing the news that Mrs Graham is close. I shall alert my print men to be ready and of course we shall look forward to seeing her, as well as having the honour of setting her books. You might have stayed to dinner, you know. We shall have guests shortly.’
Henderson shook his head. Many in London society might have paid highly for this offer. It was exactly what he had hoped for when he was standing on the doorstep. ‘Thank you, sir.’ He bowed. ‘Perhaps on another occasion.’
Back on the street, Henderson stumbled once or twice without a night light and soon fell into step up Piccadilly behind some gentlemen who were better supplied. At Charing Cross, the Golden Cross was easy to locate – from it, a rumble of laughter and another of discord seeped into the dank air. The lights were so low that the sign swinging over the doorway was indistinguishable.
‘The Bristol coach?’ Henderson enquired of a man standing outside. ‘The Rocket?’
The fellow shrugged and waved towards the busy interior.
Inside, the Golden Cross did not live up to its name, being neither golden nor, in any respect, holy. The packed wooden tables were a far cry from John Murray’s drawing room. Peppered with candle stubs, the air was lit with low, grey light. Across the room, wormwood ale came in bashed tankards served on trays by grubby serving girls.
‘A penny a pint. Purl. A penny a pint,’ they shouted, dodging between the tables.
There was a low stink of vomit emanating from one side in a waft. On one table a woman was reading cards for a coin, and on another a man with a long needle was piercing the ear of a young boy, who was slapped so hard when he cried that he fell onto the floor – a mixture of sawdust, body fluids and beaten earth.
‘The Bristol coach?’ Henderson asked one of the serving girls.
‘Doesn’t leave till tomorrow, sir. At two of the afternoon.’
‘The incoming.’ Henderson grabbed her arm. ‘Has one of the coaches not arrived?’
The girl shook herself free, slopping the pale liquid over her tray onto the floor. Without hesitation, she stamped hard on the captain’s foot. ‘Fuck off,’ she spat, turning tail. ‘Don’t touch me.’
Henderson reeled, but didn’t follow her. Instead, he continued to the dark courtyard at the rear. The stables were closed, the horses fed and the coaches housed, but there was a group of boys playing dice on a broken barrel below the hayloft.
‘Have you any idea what’s happened to the Bristol coach?’
‘Came in at lunchtime, guvnor,’ one of the boys replied – the leader of the group.
‘Have they all arrived this week as expected?’
The boy stared. ‘A coach got robbed all right. It was held up near White Waltham. That’s what they’re saying.’
Henderson took a shilling from his pocket. He held it up. ‘If you know anything else,’ he said, ‘you’ll have this. I’m looking for a lady.’
‘A shilling?’ The boy laughed, and his fellows abandoned the dice and lined up behind him, all eyes on the coin, as if they were spellbound. ‘I heard information was golden. That’s what I heard,’ the child said with a cheeky smile. ‘Got any more?’ He held out his hand.
‘A shilling’s enough.’ Henderson voice was calm.
The boy stopped, as if unsure what to do in the face of such a rebuttal. His foot kicked the dried mud meditatively and he chewed his lip without taking his eyes off the coin. ‘Two shillings,’ he tried.
Henderson grabbed him by the collar. ‘Do you want the shilling or not? I can ask the innkeeper and the odds are I’ll pay him nothing. It’s your decision.’
The boy sighed. ‘They took the mail and the baggage, but a lady had a go at them. Plucky bird. They struck her, course. She’s in the inn at White Waltham. She had a shock, see, cos ladies ain’t used to a beating.’
Henderson tossed the coin towards the boy, who caught it smartly.
‘I want to hire a horse overnight.’
‘Now, guvnor, this time of night, that’ll cost you.’
The captain laughed. ‘You’ll be a millionaire by the time you’re twelve, son. I’ll give you three shillings. That’s fair. And I want a horse that can travel in the dark at a gallop to White Waltham. There’s an extra sixpence in it if you can get me on the road inside of ten minutes.’
*
Towards the outskirts of the city, the fog dissipated. A sliver of moon lit the Berkshire road indistinctly. Now after ten, it was getting late and the roadside houses had doused their lanterns. Farmers rose early and did not burn the midnight oil, for that cost hard money. Outside the raucous life of London, England mostly slept when it got dark. Rooks infested the trees. A fox ran from a thicket, a green-eyed flash of danger.
Henderson steeled himself. It was another forty miles to the village. Albion, the horse the boy had supplied, was sturdy enough for an animal that was let by the hour. The saddle and bridle, however, were of poor quality. The captain’s main concern was navigation. At the inn he’d found a chap who drove the mail post. For another shilling, the fellow explained the route, which sounded simple, but missing a turn in the dark would be an easy mistake, and on land, unlike at sea, a traveller couldn’t manoeuvre instantly. If Henderson missed the road or turned the wrong way, he’d have to retrace his steps or hope the route provided an alternative turn-off. Signposting was erratic at best, though the captain’s know-ledge of the stars would help. The Plough was clear here, which made finding the North Star easy. The captain geed up his mount. ‘Go on, Albion,’ he urged.
Henderson had last ridden the year before with Thys Bagdorf. The men had taken a trip to the Trinidadian highlands. At the time, he’d found it exhilarating to be in the saddle. Riding had dissipated the overwhelming heat, especially when they had cantered where the undergrowth allowed it. After weeks aboard ship, it was a welcome blast of freedom. Now Henderson’s face felt cold, his nose had started to run and he hoped the bridle would hold out till he got to the inn.
Along the road, he had no idea there were so many little villages and farms. Brazil was covered in impenetrable jungle or huge plantations and a man could travel for days without seeing anyone. England was different. The market gardens on the way out of London were no more than a few acres each, and villages were peppered along the road like shot. Between the settlements, the ghostly landscape called his childhood nightmares to come and fetch him.
After two hours, Henderson came to Bracknell Forest, which he recognised by a mature oak tree slung about with white ribbons made from torn sheets. It was a local custom, the mail post driver said when he had issued direction, started by the villagers at Bray, but he didn’t know why. The tree loomed out of the blackness, the strips floating eerily in the night breeze. Albion started, but Henderson held the horse in check, though his heart leaped. It was easy to get rattled in the pitch.
‘Now, now,’ he soothed. ‘We’re close, girl. Very close.’
He clapped his hands to warm them. It was only three miles now, but it felt like twenty and the road was not even. At least the moon was at its height, which made it easier to navigate the potholes. The last stretch, there was not a single house until finally the village appeared out of the darkness and Henderson pulled up at the inn – a low brick building with a half-timbered upper floor and, swinging over the door, a sign with an eerie painting of the oak tr
ee hung with white linen.
Through cracks in the shutters and from the light seeping underneath, the captain was gratified to see the flicker of a low fire and that there were candles alight. He slipped out of the saddle and, holding the bridle in one hand, pounded the door with his other. Then he pounded again. At length, the latch clicked and two men, one of them clearly roused from slumber, stood in front of him.
‘What do you want?’ the older man demanded gruffly. In his hand he held a cumbersome cudgel, ready for action.
‘Is this White Waltham?’
‘Of course it is.’
‘I’m looking for the woman who was hurt when the stage was robbed.’
The older man looked at the younger, but neither of them moved. Henderson was glad he had his pocketknife. They looked like thugs, though that wasn’t uncommon in an innkeeper and his boy. Besides, he had roused them close to midnight.
‘I’ve come to make sure the lady is all right,’ the captain pressed.
The innkeeper relented slowly. ‘Take the gentleman’s horse, Robbie. Come in, sir.’
Inside, it smelled of tobacco and roasted meat. The room stretched back, a labyrinth of snug corners with smoke-darkened, rough-hewn pillars obscuring the corners. The floor was uneven, though it held the heat from the fire, so it was warmer inside than out – not always a given in a hostelry, especially at night. Henderson felt a wave of relief.
‘You’ll be needing a room,’ the older man said.
‘Indeed.’
‘Which is half a crown.’
Henderson handed over a coin. ‘I must see the woman straight away. Is she all right?’
The man examined the silver, then slipped it into a leather purse on his belt. ‘She got a fright but she’s right enough now. Eleanor,’ the fellow roared.
Almost instantly, a tiny serving girl shot from behind the bar, where she must have been sleeping. She smoothed her apron, her shoulders practically up to her ears, for the call had startled her. The girl’s hands were raw, as if she had been scrubbing pots, and her hair fell almost to her waist in a thin straggle of an indeterminate colour. ‘Yes, Uncle,’ she squeaked.
On Starlit Seas Page 23