But before he could go any further, he heard footsteps approaching the door. Quickly, he dived under the desk. One of the terriers followed him, but Fry kicked him off firmly and the dog trotted behind the maid as she entered the room and filled the coal scuttle. Fry kept the girl’s feet in his sightline as she bent to replenish supplies.
‘Brent will come for you. He’ll let you out later,’ she scolded the little animal as she lifted her bucket and left the room.
So, there wasn’t long. The dog returned to Fry’s heel, wagging its tail enthusiastically, as he scrambled back to the bookcase. Richard tried to pull the door open, heaving from under one of the shelves. When that didn’t work, he removed more books at random, but none of them seemed connected to a latch. His mind raced as he considered the dilemma. Where might a fellow want the opening mechanism? Smiling, his eyes lit back on the desk. He picked up the inkwell and blotting paper, running his fingers around the edges of the drawers. Then he dropped to his knees and examined the underside, where he’d just been hiding. There was an ormolu knob at the top of one of the legs that he had missed in his haste. He pushed it. The door popped open, hitting a terrier broadside. Fry’s fingertips tingled. He didn’t know how long he had and his heart was beating like a pump. This was exciting.
Peering inside Fisher’s secret room, the boy found what he was looking for. There was Henderson out cold, tied up on the floor with the dogs sniffing around him, licking his face. Fry checked the captain was breathing. Then he loosened the knots and slapped the man around his face. ‘Come on,’ he urged.
Henderson didn’t stir. Fry considered a moment. The captain was always so strong and competent. To see him like this was disconcerting. The boy’s mind raced. He had to get Henderson out of here, whatever it took.
‘Blazes,’ he murmured, taking a deep breath, as with difficulty he hoisted the captain onto his shoulder and half carried, half dragged him into the library. Appraising the situation, Fry realised that, having knocked out the captain, Fisher would be coming back, most likely with the other members of the Old Street Bridge Club. His first priority must be to get Henderson out of the house and back to the Bittersweet, but he also needed to send a message to the gentlemen, who were no doubt on their way. He had to make a statement.
He looked around. On the carpet were the volumes of Plato he had removed. Fry scooped them up and dumped them in the wide baronial fireplace, then he returned to the secret room and removed several of the smaller paintings. Behind one there was an indent, a mere ledge, and on it a leather-bound notebook. On impulse, he grabbed it and stuck it in his pocket. At the fireplace, the boy stacked the small paintings in a well-constructed pyramid so that the flames would catch and then he reached for the tinderbox on the mantel. It took a minute to spark a flame and then, breathing in, he let it fall onto the books, kindling the bonfire from the bottom. Old Mr Fry would be horrified. This was some kind of ultimate evil. Books were sacrosanct. Fry felt his pulse racing even faster as the paper crinkled. He fetched more volumes and wedged them in, making sure the fire spread to the paintings above. He eyed the naked nymphs as they bubbled and cracked. The dogs settled contentedly in the warmth.
On the desk, he picked out a piece of paper. If you come looking, he wrote, next will be Mallow Street, then Grant’s residence and Hayward’s. Fire spreads. Fry blotted his words. He reached inside his pocket and took out the notebook, ready to throw it on the flames, but the grate was jammed. ‘It won’t burn if air doesn’t circulate,’ he chided himself. A schoolboy error.
He stuck the notebook back in his pocket and hoisted Henderson onto his shoulder. Ignoring his aching bruises, he hauled the captain across the room and silently opened the door. The hallway was deserted. Fry kept his eye on the rear, where the servants’ stairs emerged into the main house. In a feat of precarious balance, he hauled Henderson’s body to the front door, thrust it open and continued outside into the sun. On Garrick Street, there were so many drunken gentlemen that the captain’s condition was unremarkable. As Fry manoeuvred down the steps, three men were singing outside one of the taverns. They pointed and waved. ‘Got your dad there?’ one of them shouted. The others laughed.
Fry searched for a sign of movement from the house or any whisper of Fisher’s return to the street. The showy carriage in which he’d left was nowhere to be seen and the boy kept moving. Half a block down, he hailed a cab. ‘Take me to the river,’ he instructed. ‘I need a skiff to Greenwich.’
The driver alighted to help bundle Henderson inside. ‘He’s had a skinful,’ the man said. ‘What’s he celebrating?’
Fry shrugged. It seemed best to make light of it. He hoped the captain would wake soon. ‘He likes a drink is all.’
The boy looked back at Fisher’s. There was still no sign of the club’s return and the boy worried that the blaze might spread. He had left the dogs in the library. As he looked down, he realised his hands were shaking. He leaned against the frame of the carriage. He had wanted to send a warning – he was right to do so. Besides, it was too late to go back now. He suddenly felt a shaft of ice run down his arms. His fingers were freezing. Would the gentlemen come looking? He tried to dismiss the thought, but he knew this was an escalation.
The captain showed no sign of stirring. Joseph Fry’s words rang in the boy’s ears – A Fry always thinks things through. Well, he’d saved Henderson’s life. That much at least was good news. With one final look at the Fisher residence, Richard mounted the grubby interior of the cab and set off for the Bittersweet.
29
On board the Bittersweet
Henderson was plagued with strange dreams. When he woke, he was in his cabin, it was dark and he had a ferocious thirst. He blundered out of bed, not sure what was real and what imaginary. By the light of the moon, which cast a cold stripe across the boards, he poured a drink from the decanter on the table. Immediately he had emptied the glass, he realised he had not been able to taste a drop. Then he fell to his knees and vomited into the chamber pot. When he found he could scramble to his feet again, he felt driven to check the stones and the gold he had secreted under the cabin floorboards alongside the main portion of his money. He prised his way into this hiding place and delved inside. Everything was where he’d left it. Hurriedly, he secreted his prizes again and, trying to stay calm, laid a hand on his stomach. At last, resting against the wooden wall, he took a moment to think. He had eaten with Richard and they had visited several houses in town and, it came to him suddenly, there had been a small dog. Yes, it was Fisher’s dog. No, Fisher’s wife’s dog. He had delivered the goods and then . . . Suddenly the captain remembered exactly what had happened.
In a panic, he burst out of the cabin and onto the deck. Two sailors on watch sprang to their feet, their faces pale and startled in the light of the thin moon. Over the side, Greenwich was calm and all but silent, and the frantic captain appeared out of place. A seagull called a way off.
‘Sir.’
‘How did I get here?’
‘Sir?’
‘Who brought me back to the ship?’
‘Mr Fry, sir.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Abed.’
‘And were we followed?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Is there any news of Mrs Graham?’
The seamen looked at him blankly.
On the high street, the church bells struck five of the clock. Henderson’s mind was a rush. The dock was deserted. The gangplank was up. Everything seemed normal and yet he was engulfed by dread. He had ruined the best of women. The beasts would do anything they could. She had been right all along and now there was no way back.
The morning air was fresh and soon the sun would rise. He could hear the wash of the water against the side of the ship, a lazy slap against the boards. Towards town, further up the river, there were the first peeps of life in the city – a lamp on a skiff or a passing carriage going home very late, a flame in the window of the bakery. Mostly, London was sl
eeping. But somewhere over there, be it in the East End or the West, the Old Street Bridge Club was no doubt discussing his disappearance.
‘Have I slept round the clock?’ Henderson asked.
‘You came back in the afternoon, sir.’
‘Keep a close eye. There may be men,’ the captain ordered, waving them off. ‘We may have to fight.’
Henderson left the deck. Without knocking, he burst into Richard’s cabin. Fry sat up sleepily, his hair tousled.
‘Captain,’ he cried. ‘You’re well.’
Henderson grabbed the boy by the sleeve of his nightgown. ‘They know about Mrs Graham,’ he said desperately. ‘They know . . .’ His voice broke. ‘And they will expose her. I must send payment immediately. I must run goods on their behalf. I must placate them.’
Fry let this sink in.
‘They had talked somehow to the men.’ Henderson’s tone was desperate.
‘It’s rumour, then. Backstairs gossip. Nothing more.’
The captain shook the boy by the shoulders. ‘Her book is to be published, Richard. Her book about Brazil. And they will name her for a harlot – a fallen woman. What matter the proof of it? Her friends may not believe it, but the rest of London . . . a rumour is enough.’
Fry nodded, understanding settling. ‘Oh God,’ he said. ‘James, I set a fire of the fellow’s books and some of his paintings. When I took you, I thought to leave a message, and to underline it I set a blaze in the grate. I threatened them.’
Henderson’s temper flared. He pushed Fry back on his bunk. ‘You fool!’ he spat.
‘I saved your life,’ Fry shot back. ‘I didn’t know they’d uncovered your affair.’
A stream of rising sunlight seeped round the edges of the shuttered porthole as the day dawned.
Fry looked sheepish. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
Henderson was about to lash out, but a muffled knock sounded on the door. It was one of the men from the deck. He was holding a sheet of folded folio. ‘It arrived at first light, sir, only a second ago. A message boy,’ he said, his eyes avoiding both men as he handed over the missive.
Henderson opened the seal. The writing was clear. The message clearer.
Men in wooden ships should not start fires.
‘Those bastards will kill every man on board,’ Fry said.
Henderson sank onto the edge of the bunk. He turned over the paper and considered as it dawned on him there was something there – a hint upon which he might hang a negotiation.
‘These men are bullies and they will strike one way or another.’ He spoke slowly as he reasoned it out. ‘But still, if I read it right, this is not a statement – it is an invitation. If they wanted to set fire to the Bittersweet then they would have done so. No – they are hoping for a response. What you have done is up the stakes, Richard. I don’t expect I can simply pay them off any more but still . . .’
Henderson opened the shuttered porthole and peered out to see if the delivery boy had loitered. The quay was deserted apart from a cat curled up asleep on a low wall. There was movement on one or two of the ships at anchor as the sailors stirred, used to getting up with the sun.
‘The only way to save her is to kill them.’ Fry squared up to the problem.
Henderson turned his gaze back into the cabin and stared at the boy. ‘No. That kind of vendetta would be insanity. In that case it will become only a matter of how many people end up dead. You. Me. Clarkson. The fifteen men aboard. Fisher. Grant. Hayward. The staff in each of their houses. Perhaps even Maria. God knows. That way leads to the gallows and it is impossible to call who might win such an engagement. We don’t know their resources and, in any such activity, luck plays its part. It is too dangerous and uncontrolled. No. I will tackle it another way. I must face my responsibility.’
Fry got out of bed, ready for action. The captain held up his hand.
‘Not you, Richard. It’s time for you to go back to Bristol. I’m not prepared to put you in harm’s way any longer. You can’t help with this, boy. Not now. You’ve done enough.’
Fry looked appalled. ‘I’m not a coward,’ he insisted.
‘I’m not telling you to run away. You’re being ordered out of the line of fire. Like a soldier. You’ve done an admirable job. You saved my life, whatever might transpire.’
Richard’s eyes were surly. He had thought fondly of his home in the last few days. It surprised him how often he’d wanted to share his ideas with his brothers or listen, at least for a little while, to his mother’s impassioned tittle-tattle chock-full of unreasonable opinion. Still, he didn’t want to be made to go back. ‘I’m not a child.’
‘Not any more.’ Henderson smiled. ‘You will return to the safety of your family and stand taller amongst your brothers, I expect. But you will go. I am captain of this ship and I am issuing a command.’
Richard bit his lip. ‘But the men are in danger, sir. I must stay to help.’
Henderson shook his head. ‘Enough. And no more petty actions, Richard. Setting a fire in the fellow’s study. What good is such revenge? We must keep our eyes to the main matter. You are a man now.’
‘If I go home, I won’t be a man. You think I am a fop.’
‘I know most certainly you are not. I have seen you near kill a man. But if I am going to play this game and win it, then I need to play it alone.’ The captain stood up. ‘Come on. You’d best get your things. Go and say goodbye to Clarkson. I dare say he’ll miss you.’
Richard’s eyes narrowed. He jumped out of his bunk. ‘I’ll find Clarkson then,’ he said.
As the door closed, Henderson felt his heart sink. The least he could do, he told himself, was save the boy. He sat on the edge of the bunk, facing what lay ahead. He had men and he had weapons. That at least was a start. He’d never backed down from a fight in his life. From his pocket he pulled out the flick knife he’d carried with him – his London blade. He opened and closed it.
Then his eye fell to the desk that jutted out from one side. On it, there was a small leather notebook. He’d never seen Fry with that before, he thought as he picked it up and opened the first page. Inside, columns of figures trailed a ragged line – calculations divided by three and marked by place names. Calais, Natal, Bombay, Canton, Constantinople. Henderson flicked through the pages. Venice, Copenhagen, St Petersburg, Murmansk. Every one a trading port. His fingers tingled. There was only one place Fry could have got this. Henderson started to laugh.
‘That boy is a plague of God. I swear.’
He held the note that had arrived in one hand and weighed it against his discovery.
‘This is an invitation,’ he said. ‘And this is what will save Maria Graham’s reputation and my life.’
His sense of hope reinstated, Henderson sprang to his feet. He burst into the corridor. Fry was returning to the cabin with a canvas sailor’s bag with which Clarkson had evidently provided him.
‘You’ve supplied me ammunition, boy.’ The captain grinned. He flung his arm around Fry’s shoulder and hugged him. Then he crossed the corridor, closing his door and locking it without waiting for a reply.
‘What? What do you mean?’ Fry’s tone betrayed his bemusement.
Even later, when the boy had dressed and packed and loitered on deck as he completed his target practice one last time, the captain didn’t stir. Leaning to listen at his cabin door, all Fry could hear was the scratching of a quill and, intermittently, the captain striding up and down, muttering. Then, at two of the afternoon, Henderson left the Bittersweet. He had the air of a man for whom there would be no turning back.
‘I have business to see to in town,’ he said. ‘When I get back, son, no offence, I don’t want to see you here.’
*
With the library unusable due to the lingering odour of burning oil paint and leather, the gentlemen congregated in the day room. Fisher was in such a filthy mood that it wasn’t surprising his wife had vacated the house to visit her sister in Oxford, taking her damn dogs with her
. The staff had seen to her packing while Fisher had sent a note to the artists’ agent Mr Notman, whose discretion in the matter of a gentleman’s particular collection was always assured.
‘It took me years to find just the sort of thing I like,’ he complained. ‘And the books were worth a fortune. I shall replace them, of course, but the expense.’
‘It’s not as if you read,’ Grant pointed out.
‘I might want to,’ Fisher snarled.
He hoped that the leather notebook that was missing lay burned amongst the ashes. The fire had been so damnably effective that he could not tell which books had been consigned to the flames, nor could he admit his concerns to Grant and Hayward. Their agreement was that there should be no records. Fisher tried not to think on it and instead focussed on his losses. ‘We could have forfeited our lives in this business,’ he exploded. ‘Lighting flammable material in an unattended room is madness. The carpet is entirely singed,’ he said petulantly.
‘We shall have him now. Never fear,’ Grant soothed. ‘We shall hire men.’
Hayward, however, did not want to rush. Fisher was hopeless at most matters – everything except strangling an unsuspecting victim, he thought as he silently reviewed the state of affairs on Garrick Street through the long windows. He should never have left the matter of Henderson in Fisher’s lily-fingered grasp. The situation clearly required subtlety. On the street, the new buildings reminded him of a monochrome engraving, one of Robert Wilkinson’s finest – a picture of a new London. The sun was at its height and today His Lordship felt that he might manage to consume luncheon. He wondered if Fisher’s staff would serve them. The fire had thrown the household into disarray. The butler had not even taken his hat when he arrived, and when Hayward had put it into the man’s hands, he had not immediately understood what was required. Mind you, Hayward had never visited the Fisher residence before yesterday and he had not encountered the butler at all on that occasion. It may be that the man was simply poorly trained. The house was grand, but it lacked something. He could not quite put his finger upon it. Hayward strained to see as a message boy approached the door and his missive was taken in.
On Starlit Seas Page 34