Henderson shook his head. ‘He had business here, though.’
From further behind the bar, a middle-aged woman emerged. She was sporting a flash of grainy rouge that gave the appearance of a rash across her cheeks and she wore a grubby peach ribbon in her hair. Both the hair and the ribbon looked as if they belonged to someone younger. ‘What’s he after, Titus?’ she asked.
‘Fellow called Simmons.’
The woman looked Henderson up and down. ‘Mr Simmons,’ she greeted him.
The captain smiled. ‘No. I’m a friend of Will Simmons. He had business hereabouts and I was hoping to get in touch with his associates. There are some gentlemen, I believe.’
Titus stood a little straighter – only a fraction, so that from a distance no one might notice, but Henderson saw it. Meanwhile, the grubby woman stared with a look of such intensity that she took on the bearing of a waxwork.
‘If you were aware of such gentlemen, I’m sure they’d be delighted to hear the news I bring.’ The captain popped his empty tankard onto the bar. ‘A fine pint.’
‘Betty and I keep a cellar beyond the means of the immediate area.’ Titus nodded. ‘Another?’
Henderson shook his head. ‘I’ve got to find Simmons’s friends. If you can’t help, then I’d best be on my way. Simmons recommended your beer. He was right.’
The woman unfroze suddenly. She motioned the captain to approach, her nose wrinkling and twitching like a rabbit’s. There appeared to have been a lot of news arriving for the gentlemen of late and she itched to find out at least some of it. ‘I might know who you’re looking for. To what does your news pertain, sir?’
Henderson betrayed not a flicker. ‘If you know where they are, then you had best tell me.’ His voice was flat.
Titus looked as if he might lay down his cheroot and take action, for even a hint of a threat was a hint too much, but Mrs Wylie touched his arm lightly. She was, after all, intruding on the gentlemen’s privacy, or at least trying to. Someone would tell her what was going on – sometime soon. In the meantime, the appearance of the stranger was interesting. He did not look like a fellow for the cards and in no way fine enough to sit at table with Hayward, Fisher and Grant, who were dapper to a man and well above his sort. She leaned in further.
‘You’ll find ’em directly across,’ she whispered. ‘It’s the black door – the shuttered house. On the first floor. Right over the road.’
25
Old Street
The Bridge Club had summoned Sam Pearson that evening. They were insistent that, having had a full day to consider the matter of their stolen cargo, they would be ready to issue instructions. Sam had arrived early or, rather, he thought with a smile, right on time. When he spotted the captain and the boy on Old Street, he fell in behind. This encounter was an unexpected bonus. From the shelter of a broken-down doorway, he calmly watched the men disarm the fellow who tried to rob them and slash his sides. Once they had moved on, Sam followed, still limping from his encounter with Mrs Wylie the day before. He passed the injured man without stopping as the poor creature tried to haul himself towards Shoreditch, where, no doubt, if he could make it, help would be at hand. He was, Sam noticed, making decent headway, and by the time Pearson slipped silently into Mallow Street, he’d moved a block, which was a promising sign for his prospects.
Pearson’s attention, however, was directed to more import-ant and pressing business. He cut as close as he could into the shadows as he rounded the corner and was just in time to witness the figure of Fry crouching in the indent of the window and the captain disappearing into the Rose. The very sight of Henderson made Pearson’s blood boil. He had a hot temper at the best of times, but he had been humiliated on the Bittersweet so the fires burnt with a particular ferocity. He couldn’t go into the Bridge Club without the captain’s lookout seeing him, so by default the boy became his target. By Sam’s reckoning, the lad was carrying two weapons and, of course, there were his fists, but then not only was he shorter than Pearson, being just at the age before the final filling out of manhood added girth to height, but also Sam had the advantage of surprise. The boy’s gaze was fixed upon the Rose. Sam smiled. Silently, he cut back the way he’d come, sneaking around the alleyway to the rear and creeping behind Fry, not so much a shadow as a levitating spirit, hovering over the manure-strewn side street. In one stealthy swoop, he kicked the boy over with his good leg and, not without skill, held him down by the throat. In this position, he frisked Fry efficiently, removing both the flick knife and the stolen razor from his keeping. Fry squirmed but could not call out, for Pearson had him pinned by his windpipe so that the street’s stinking sewer oozed against his ear. Richard’s eyes flashed. It was only natural for him to assume that this attack was related to the skirmish on Old Street only minutes before, but then in the East End, it was becoming apparent that you could be mugged twice in five minutes, easy.
Pearson leaned down. ‘Stay quiet and I won’t kill you.’
With this ominous warning, Pearson hauled the boy to his feet. He pinned Fry’s arms behind his back with a vice-like efficiency that could only come from experience. Next, he guided the fellow in the direction of his choice. It was an effective technique and in less than a minute Pearson had bundled Fry across the road, through the door of the Bridge Club and up the wooden stairs.
In the club room, the gentlemen were still and silent. The only movement came from the trickle of smoke that trailed upwards from Hayward’s and Grant’s cigars.
‘What have we here?’ Hayward enquired.
‘He’s here,’ Sam said. ‘The captain of the Bittersweet, the blaggard. He’s over the road in the Rose.’
‘And this scrap?’ Grant enquired.
‘Was covering his back.’ Pearson couldn’t help grinning. ‘I thought it best to bring him up.’
Fry squirmed unconvincingly and a glob of mud fell from his face onto the bare floorboards. It was difficult to say what this place was, but at least these were gentlemen. In Richard’s experience, the presence of gentlemen meant he was safe. He considered telling them that Henderson had come about their investment, at which point, forgetting his appearance, he anticipated the offer of a drink.
The boy was on the point of speaking when instead he became intrigued as the men in the room shifted, wordlessly. Grant laid his hand on his ebony cane and moved his palm backwards and forwards over its fox-shaped head. Fisher rose slowly and adjusted his cravat, while Hayward stayed absolutely still. Mesmerising, the men’s movements had the air of a tableau being set. It flashed through Richard’s mind that this wasn’t how the Frys did business. These gentlemen were unlike any others he’d encountered. It was as if they were playing out some kind of deadly ballet. Then, in a flash, the scene switched from something half-familiar to a nightmare. In a swift, unanticipated motion, Grant brought down his cane across the boy’s legs.
The sound that came from his mouth was not one Richard Fry recognised. For a second, it seemed the whole world disappeared and only a strangled, desperate yell hung in the air. When his eyes were able to focus once more, the boy struggled for breath. He thought he might vomit. His legs felt as if they had been shattered, and his brain raced with fear and confusion. In Bristol, when he’d fought, it was with boys his own size in the main and no one had weapons to speak of. Fisher stepped forward, taking charge of the interrogation that was to follow the assault.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked calmly.
‘Richard,’ Fry managed to get out, the word so guttural it clanked against his teeth.
Fisher took his time. He appeared to be enjoying himself immensely. ‘Well then, Dick, enlighten us. What is it you’re doing here?’
‘The captain’s come to arrange payment. You’re Will Simmons’s investors? He’s come to return Simmons’s effects and pay your share.’ This time, the words came in a loose babble, difficult to discern, like filthy water flowing too fast. He ended with a sigh, the last of the air leaving his lungs. His legs s
tung like fury. There was no reason for this, he thought, only badness.
The men stayed stock-still. Grant’s eyes were like embers. He raised the cane once more with such ferocity that a loose lock of his greying hair swung sharply like a horse’s tail at a gallop as he brought down the ebony. This time he cut Fry’s leg higher and Richard didn’t make a sound. After a tiny pause that he would later put down to shock, the tender skin on his thighs burst into tiny flowers of pain. The boy could feel the bruises forming – dark weals blooming in a line the colour of blackcurrant jelly. His legs quivered. If I can feel them shake, can they truly be smashed? he thought. It was clearly some kind of misunderstanding. He tried to speak, but he was winded and only let out a sigh like a candle guttering.
‘Good of your captain to pitch up,’ Fisher commented viciously. ‘But it’s not up to him to make a deal. Not now.’
‘He paid the excise,’ Grant hissed under his breath. ‘He hijacked our goods, damn him, and paid the bloody excise.’
Fry was scrambling and out of his depth. It was difficult to think. Henderson had said the men were smugglers, but that made no sense. Who the hell tried to avoid excise? Surely not gentlemen such as these? What was it these men actually wanted? And was there any way he could warn Henderson what was waiting for him? There was something grotesque about the room. Something awful.
Fry had come up with no answers as a heavy knock sounded on the door to the street. The men shifted, refocussing. It occurred to him that they were acting together like a pack of wolves – no, not that, for wolves would surely not be so malicious. These fellows were enjoying their cruelty.
The knock was repeated more urgently a second time and this was somehow gratifying to them. Fisher, Hayward and Grant shifted. Sam Pearson let go of Richard’s arms and Fry slumped, his injuries causing his legs to give way beneath him. His thighs ached, but his fear of what might happen next dampened the pain. At Grant’s nod, Pearson answered the door as Richard’s eyes darted between the three gentlemen, desperate to foresee what would transpire. He’d given his word to watch the captain’s back.
‘It’s not often we have a visitor who knocks,’ Fisher drawled.
When the gentlemen laughed, it was a murmur. Fry’s eyes bounced from one to another. Should he attempt to disarm Grant, who, as far as he could make out, was the most violent and certainly most heavily armed? He made a move, trying to grab the man’s stick before Henderson could enter. It was a brave attempt, but Grant, who had appeared not to be looking, was too quick. With a vicious thrashing motion, the ebony came down on Fry’s shoulder, and this time the blow came from the end with the silver ornament. It knocked the boy over and his ribs cracked sharply on the floor. The pain seared through the thin material of his jacket and Grant loomed above him, ready to continue the beating if he moved.
‘Well, he’s spirited, I suppose,’ Fisher commented as Fry let out a sob and the hammering of feet on the staircase introduced the captain.
Henderson entered ahead of Pearson and, noting Richard’s prone body, nodded brusquely. If he realised Richard was hurt, he showed no sign of it.
‘Ah, there you are,’ he said, seemingly relaxed. ‘Gentlemen.’ He lowered his body into a half bow. ‘I’m glad to have tracked you down.’
Grant moved back towards the group, but Hayward was the one who spoke.
‘Captain,’ he said. ‘If you had not come to find us, we surely would have visited you. Where in damnation are our goods, sir?’
Grant was leaning heavily on his stick and Fisher appeared to be toying with some kind of cord – not a rope, but a red-silk affair. Henderson noticed it and wondered if it was a rosary. In the low light, it was difficult to tell.
‘Disposed of at profit, gentlemen,’ he said smoothly.
‘All of our cargo?’
Henderson smirked. ‘Well, the beans, which are, if I’m not mistaken, not quite everything. Do you wish to discuss this matter in company?’ He nodded towards Pearson and the boy.
Hayward stepped up. ‘You are correct. Mr Pearson was not aware of the other matter. He is loyal, however, if not fully informed. And the boy is your concern. Damn you, sir. First, you abscond with our cargo and then—’
Henderson cut in. ‘Not at all. I delivered your cargo, or, rather, Will Simmons’s cargo, for I had no real detail of your involvement until I arrived. From Cornwall on, I had your representative aboard in the person of Mr Pearson. He chose to leave the ship, thus depriving me of any natural means to find you. Luckily Will had mentioned Mallow Street and enquiries have proved . . . well . . . fruitful. Here I am and not too shabby. I’ve been in London two days. I think I have found you promptly.’
Pearson started to object to this version of events, but Grant moved his stick to forbid it and motioned the captain to continue.
‘I cannot see, gentlemen, what else you might have expected me to do. In fact, I think you owe me thanks. Not every captain, upon the death of the man who had filled his hold, might go to the lengths I am going to now to make good on a deal he made thousands of miles away with the representative of people he had never met. Oh, and here are Will Simmons’s effects.’ He drew a packet out of his pocket. ‘I’ll not rob a dead man.’
The Bridge Club ignored this gesture.
‘You paid the duty,’ Grant said baldly. ‘The boy cannot have left you that much in the dark.’
The others agreed, but Henderson remained bluff. ‘I did, sir. I paid it. As captain, that was my decision. And I am here to arrange repayment of your investment as a result.’
‘And then there’s the other matter,’ Hayward pointed out.
‘The gemstones and the gold. Yes, there’s that too.’
Fisher poured himself a drink. ‘We are expecting a good return,’ he said.
Henderson smiled. He motioned for permission to sit. He kept one hand in his pocket, on the handle of his knife.
‘To business, then? Well, I expect a commission for brokering the deal Will made when he bought the beans. He and I agreed that, and I have already taken it. And then there is the matter of transporting and disposing of your goods at profit, for which there will be a fee. I also expect to be paid for my honesty, gentlemen. And I expect to be paid well, because I have done a good job.’
‘But the duty,’ Grant repeated.
Henderson did not deny what Grant said, but he did ignore it. ‘In the matter of your rather singular block of chocolate, I have removed the gemstones and gold and I expect a fee in respect of delivery. A generous fee, in fact. Most men would have gone off with that kind of prize.’
Hayward sat down. Henderson’s tone was impressive and his argument was not without merit. He may have been misguided in paying excise, but he seemed a decent enough rogue. He was here, after all. ‘Captain, why did you pay the excise?’ he enquired. ‘Did Will not explain the nature of our operation?’
Sam cut in. ‘I explained. I told him.’
Grant silenced the boy with a look that cut through the low light like a flaming arrow.
Henderson shrugged. ‘It’s a captain’s job to make decisions. To tell the truth, I didn’t deem it worth the risk. As it turns out, I made a profit the other way. I can’t tell, of course, if I might have made more by smuggling the beans, but I expect the quality of the goods helped to sell them. It was not, by my thinking, an unreasonable act to keep the law.’
Hayward considered this. ‘Well, well. We were looking for a reliable captain, were we not?’ he murmured.
‘We need a fellow who can do things our way,’ Grant said.
‘He could do it our way,’ Hayward concluded. ‘Couldn’t you, Captain? I’d say you’ve run goods in your time. Look – he’s calm as a tame ferret. Seems reliable enough. You’d run for us, wouldn’t you? It’s our intention to regularise this route.’
Pearson looked furious. He shuffled his feet.
‘I’m here to conclude this deal, gentlemen.’ Henderson smiled. ‘That is all.’
‘We pay ver
y well, Captain,’ Fisher said.
‘We insist.’ Hayward leaned across the table. ‘You’ll see.’
‘No,’ Henderson said. ‘It’s a kind offer. Thank you. But I have plans.’
‘The Old Street Bridge Club does not brook disagreement on such matters,’ Grant replied flatly. ‘In the matter of this first shipment, we may have been mistaken, Captain.’ Here he paused to stare at Pearson. ‘We may not have realised that under the right orders you could be a considerable asset. In the past we have had problems with unreliable fellows. Captains in particular.’
‘Indeed,’ Hayward concurred. ‘We may require your services. With your help we can bring in goods regularly from the Brazils. We’ll put you on a generous percentage. It will be worth your while.’
Fisher hovered at Henderson’s back. He was fondling the red-silk cord.
‘Gentlemen.’ Henderson smiled. ‘I’m here to conclude the arrangement I made with Will, and after that I have my own plans. I’m sorry.’
He had not quite finished speaking when Fisher made his move, slipping the garrotte around the captain’s throat and pulling it tightly enough to bring Henderson to his feet, struggling against the cord. His eyes bright with panic, Henderson desperately tried to paw away the rope. ‘Do it, Fisher,’ Hayward encouraged.
Fry moved to help, but Sam held him down. He kicked Sam’s injured leg and Pearson retaliated by punching hard, landing a stinging blow on Fry’s bruised shoulder. As the boys scrapped, the Old Street Bridge Club remained focussed on Henderson, Fisher still tightening the red cord around the captain’s neck. The captain’s face was flushed, his eyes hard as he tried to figure out how to get out of the deadly lock. Hayward appeared mildly troubled, while Grant peered with an eager expression, his blue eyes bright. They did not anticipate what happened next. Struggling for breath, the captain moved unexpectedly. Instead of jerking against the cord, he jerked his whole lower body with it. In doing so, the captain kicked the chair from beneath him, catching Fisher an agonising blow to the groin and toppling him. The red cord fell. Grant moved in with his cane raised, but the captain was too quick. Instantly, he landed a knockout blow on the bridge of the Scotsman’s nose. Grant went over on top of Fisher. By the time Hayward presented himself, Henderson was armed with Grant’s cane, a potentially lethal weapon, and swung the silver head hard. The gentlemen became subdued.
On Starlit Seas Page 28