by Nicola Pryce
Most of all, I wanted Sir James to know what Edmund had gone through. That his father had treated him with disdain and favoured Francis. That Francis was his brother. But I had promised Constance – the keeper of her family’s secrets – that no one would hear it from my lips.
He was waiting for me to speak but I could say nothing, and he returned the letter to his pocket. ‘Rose and I will visit the hospital while you find the outfitters. Take the new walkway round the river and be careful. It’s a rough place. Don’t take a bag and keep checking behind you.’ He consulted his fob watch. ‘It’s just gone nine. We’ve two hours before we have to leave. Jago – could you show them the map?’
Jago spread out the map, pointing to where we were. ‘This wall here goes right round the dock – like a fortress. These are the dry docks . . . these here . . . five in all, so steer clear of them. Take this walkway as far as Mutton Cove. Here . . . see? Then go straight up the slipway. The streets form a grid so just keep goin’ up from the slip. Where d’ye need to get?’
I tried to remember what Uncle Alex had said. ‘George Street.’
‘Then it’s here, behind Mount Wise. Go up here. It’s busy, mind – specially round the victuallers. Careful round the rigging house . . . these are the bakehouses . . . an’ here’s the coopers. Watch yer step at the blacksmiths – carts will come at ye with speed. Always keep a watch behind ye. Once past the rope house, ye’ll see the mast house an’ the ponds below. It’s steep for a while. Don’t go near The Lugger tavern – they’re thieves, the lot of them. Ye’re as like to get your throat cut. Here, take the map. George Street is a long street – got a number?’
‘I’m told it’s number sixty-three.’
The old man scratched his white whiskers. ‘Well, let’s just hope it’s the better end.’
Chapter Forty-four
James lowered the rowing boat into the water and I climbed down the knotted rope ladder, the boat rocking as I sat beside Luke. James pulled on the oars, rowing us swiftly across the muddy creek. He steadied the boat, looping the rope round an encrusted hoop, and I followed Luke up the steps to the small wooden jetty.
The docks lay ahead of us, a forest of tall masts. Luke pointed the way and we hurried along the cobbled walkway with its huge wall on one side and the crowded river on the other. Frederick had described it to me, but I had no idea the dockyard was so vast. The walkway stopped at a small stone harbour with fishing boats moored against its side and we looked around. The top of a slipway was just visible behind huge piles of nets and crates of fish.
‘This must be Mutton Cove. We’re to go up there.’
Seaweed lay glistening across the stones at the top of the slipway and I was grateful for my stout shoes. The rise was steeper than I expected, the street widening to a steady stream of carts and mule packs, all hurrying past us. We stepped behind a cart laden with barrels and followed it uphill, but halfway to the top, I had to stop to catch my breath.
‘Are you all right, Amelia?’
I shook my head. Smoke was choking me, stinging my eyes.
Shouts and clanging echoed from a building and I stood, rooted to the spot, staring at the burning inferno spewing out thick black smoke. It was the largest building I had ever seen – a mass of furnaces, their red flames leaping like the fires of hell. The noise was deafening, huge cranking chains lifting enormous bellows to keep the fires blazing. Cranes were dragging heavy bars that glowed so brightly it hurt my eyes to look. Sprays of yellow sparks cascaded like fountains, lighting up silhouettes of naked men.
Luke searched my face. ‘Amelia . . . ?’
I could not breathe. ‘I’ll be fine,’ I whispered.
‘You look very pale. Let me get you away from here.’ I felt his arms around me, his sudden lift as he carried me along the cobbles. A stack of crates lay by the road and he put me down, freeing my hood so I could breathe more easily.
‘I’m sorry. I’ll be all right now. It’s just . . . Francis was murdered here . . . his killers worked in the forge. He wasn’t set upon on his way back to London like we thought he was, but he was murdered – right here, in Plymouth Dock. And seeing the forges suddenly made it seem so real – it was so brutal.’
I felt cold to my bones. ‘He was beaten – then thrown into a pigpen – his legs were dangling over the side with his boots on when they found him. Only, now I can understand why it haunts Edmund so much. I couldn’t picture it before, but I can see it clearly now. Edmund feels he should have stopped it.’
‘How could he have?’
‘Francis took a fancy to a married woman – he was so different from Edmund. There’s more to it than that . . . but I can’t tell you. I’m all right . . . honestly I am.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Where do we go?’
He smoothed out the map, looking around. ‘That large building must be the mast house – see the masts floating in the pond? So that means we need to go up there.’
Huge warehouses lined the road. I could smell bread baking and cabbage boiling. Wagons were queueing, the sound of whips and angry shouts. People were yelling to clear the way to allow their carts to pass; men rolling barrels, stacking carts, sawing or hammering, or making wheels or barrels, or baking for the king’s navy. Like ants in a nest, or bees in a hive. The bustle and noise were incredible. Sewers ran either side, overflowing with fetid water, horse dung piled on the streets, children with pale faces and running noses handing staves to the coopers. Boys were holding mules, women dodging the carts with huge baskets on their heads.
We turned right and Luke pointed to the sign – George Street – hanging from an iron pole. To our left, the houses looked dirty and cramped, crowding together amid piles of filth, paint peeling from the doors. Men were sitting on benches, their limbs wrapped in filthy bandages, their crutches stacked against the damp walls behind them. Some had lost legs, some arms, all of them staring at us from beneath dark scowling brows. The door of the Lugger Tavern swung open and a man was thrown to the cobbles. He crawled to the ditch and vomited, and Luke’s arm tightened.
‘Let’s hope this isn’t the better end,’ he said, leading me away. ‘Come – we’ll go right. Those houses look smarter.’
A fine row of red-brick terraces with large sash windows stretched ahead of us, their doors gleaming with fresh paint. Many had brass plaques on the doors and rails outside for horses. A water pump stood by a water trough, and several horses stood drinking while their riders held their reins. The men beside us were now smartly dressed in frock coats and tall hats and I caught a glimpse of a large white building at the end of the street.
A shop with a black sign caught our attention and we looked up at the huge white letters, GIEVES, and the slightly smaller writing, Royal Naval Outfitters. Established 1785.
‘We’re here,’ said Luke.
I stared at the black door in sudden panic. Luke’s hand was already on the handle.
‘Luke, stop. This doesn’t feel right. I can’t explain it . . . but it feels wrong.’
His voice was soft. ‘You think you’re being disloyal to Edmund?’
‘Yes, I do. It suddenly seems very underhand – it’s not kind . . . and you’re right . . . it feels disloyal.’
‘It’s not disloyal or underhand and nor are you being hurtful. If the miniature is here, I’ll pay the amount he owes, and you can take it home. But, Amelia . . . we wouldn’t be doing this if you didn’t feel something was wrong. Your loyalty to Edmund goes without question. We’re doing this because you don’t want to think ill of him – because you need to believe in him.’ His voice caught. ‘And so do I.’
The shop smelled of polish. Vast wooden cupboards lined the walls, three large windows filling the room with light. A wooden counter with a bank of small drawers stood at one end, each drawer with a brass handle and a carefully written label. A tall, thin man with a bald head was staring at us from over the rim of a pair of spectacles. He wore a striped blue apron, a sharpening file in one hand and a large pair of scissors i
n the other. Next to him stood a young man, equally pale and gaunt, but without the glasses and with a shock of brown hair.
The older man put down his scissors. ‘May I help you, sir?’
Luke closed the door. ‘I hope so. My name is Dr Bohenna, and this is Miss Carew. We’d like some clarification on an account you hold.’
‘Indeed? I am Arthur Henderson, and this is my son, William Henderson.’ He leaned forward on the polished wooden counter. ‘I’m afraid I’m rarely at liberty to disclose details of accounts – without authorization.’ An open letter lay on the counter in front of him, but everywhere else was clear of clutter, everything put away in its proper place. He did not even glance at me but stood regarding Luke through professional eyes.
‘It’s Sir Edmund Melville’s account I’d like to discuss. I believe a miniature portrait might have been left here – perhaps as surety? I’m here to make sure the account is cleared.’
Arthur Henderson stiffened, gave a sharp sniff. He gripped the edge of the counter, staring back at Luke. ‘Am I bein’ accused of theft? Is that what this is about?’
He sounded angry and Luke shook his head. ‘No, of course not.’
The tailor reached for the letter, sliding it along the polished counter. ‘Meaning no disrespect, sir, but it seems like an accusation to me.’ He held up the letter. ‘I’ve just received this express – asking for the same such miniature. For years we hear nothing, and then both you and this letter arrive on the same day – all of you comin’ from nowhere, makin’ out I’ve got something of yours. When I don’t.’
I stared at the letter. I could not see the writing, but I knew I would recognize it. ‘Is that from Sir Edmund Melville? I’m his fiancée, and Dr Bohenna is his physician. May I read his letter? Only the miniature is missing, and we believed it to be here . . . but . . . if it isn’t . . . Please be assured we’re not accusing you of anything – we’re just trying to trace where it might be, that’s all.’
He remained taut, unsmiling, handing me the letter with an angry thrust, and I tried to steady my hand. The words swam in front of me . . . that I rushed off in such haste and forgot to leave a forwarding address. I felt certain I had asked for the portrait to be sent in my trunk, but I can only imagine that it arrived too late and you may be keeping it for me. If this is the case, please do me the very great honour of sending it to me as quickly as you can – the address is as follows . . .
He had been telling the truth; dear God, I had so maligned him. It was just as he had said; all my doubts were groundless, founded on hurt and suspicion when I should have believed him. Luke handed the letter back to Mr Henderson. ‘We were just passing and hoped it would be here, but it was obviously never sent to you – it must still be with the artist in London. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’
Arthur Henderson reached beneath the counter, bringing out a leather-bound ledger. ‘I know I don’t possess it because when that letter came, I looked up his account. Soon as I read it I went straight to my books. Sir Edmund puts the date when he collected his uniform so I went straight to the page. He wasn’t Sir Edmund then, just Midshipman Melville, but it’s here right enough.’
He turned the pages of his ledger, each entry written in the same immaculate hand. List after list of everything in every officer’s sea chest and underneath each list were the alterations required and the special instructions given for collection. As he turned the pages, I glimpsed . . . watch as security . . . diamond brooch . . . pledges held . . . money to be paid on first payment and then he stopped and I read Midshipman Edmund Melville Date of trunk received: August 2nd 1793. Date of trunk collected: August 4th 1793. Ship: HMS Faith and the long list of everything sent from the outfitters in London: 1 frock coat, 2 jacket suits, 6 prs trousers, 14 plain shirts, 4 ruffled . . . At the end of the list were the words Paid in full.
‘There . . . I can assure you it was not in the trunk and it was never sent here. Something as valuable as that would need to be signed for – I’d have signed for it. Here . . . right here . . . nothing. That’s where I put further instructions about what to do with things that are sent too late.’ He pointed to the bottom of the page. ‘It would be here under instructions.’
He drew a deep breath, looking over the rim of his glasses. ‘We’re a family firm and I run a good business. I’ve never had any complaints. I’m as honest as the day is long – my reputation’s as clean as a whistle.’
‘Please don’t think we’ve any reason to doubt your honesty. May I?’ Luke turned the ledger round. ‘This . . . here . . . it looks like a number?’
Arthur Henderson adjusted his glasses. ‘That’s not instructions, that’s number 24. That’s something different. That means he left something behind. They leave all manner of stuff. Rushin’ here, rushin’ there. They never leave enough time – I’ve a wardrobe full of what they leave behind. Coats and hats and canes. Most of them come back, sometimes years later because what they leave can be worth a lot of money. We store them all because I don’t want to be accused of theft.’ He nodded to his son. ‘See what twenty-four is, William. It’s ’ninety-three, so I reckon that’ll be the second cupboard.’
His son sifted through the garments in the wardrobe, lifting out a jacket with 24 pinned to the front, and as he walked towards us my heart seemed to burst. A searing pain made me catch my breath and I reached forward, gathering the familiar jacket from the counter. Tears flooded my eyes; I could not help but hold it to me, a terrible compulsion making me clasp it to my heart. It smelled musty, unworn, but still it held his shape. I wanted to hold it to me, to kiss it, the pain so intense I thought I might cry out.
Luke was watching me but I could not help it. I could not look at him. I could only clutch the jacket against my cheek, breathe in the smell of it. I was back in Pendowrick with Edmund, running across the moor, stopping to catch our breath. He had been wearing this jacket in the dream I had had when he was running from me. It was as if I had caught up with him and was holding him to me, as if he were still wearing it. I could do nothing but clutch it to my heart, the pain so intense, so visceral, like flames burning me inside.
Luke was thanking them, signing papers, bidding them goodbye, but I could not move. I just stood where I was, clutching the jacket to my heart. ‘Yes, no problem. I’ll sign for this . . . we’ll take it straight back to Sir Edmund. Thank you, Mr Henderson . . . thank you, yes . . . Good day to you, sirs.’
He led me down the street and we started retracing our steps, but I hardly saw where I was going. I could not let go of the jacket but kept it clasped to my heart as if I could never let it go. I could see Edmund in it, feel him in it – his old jacket bringing back all the love I had for him, the hope for our future, everything flooding back and I clutched it firmer, knowing I must never give up on his love. I had to save him from the gallows, from prison, from their cruel lashes – from everything they were about to inflict on him.
Luke’s arm was firm, leading me along the crowded street, pulling me back from passing carts, yet all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and clutch the jacket to me. ‘Come, Amelia . . . come. We’re nearly there.’ Men were loading wagons, people yelling, the smoke billowing from the forges. The repulsive smell of boiling offal adding to the stench of the gutter. ‘Just down these steps. Here’s Mutton Cove. It’s high tide so we have to hurry. Along here . . . that’s it, up these steps.’
Waves were lapping the top of the slipway, men unloading crates of fish, seagulls screeching above us. Luke’s voice kept urging me forward and I fought the yearning to wail. I could not help it. It was beyond my control.
‘Here’s the walkway – there’s Stonehouse Pool. Mind this puddle. Sir James will be waiting in the creek. It’s not far now.’ He helped me on to a rock, standing beside me. ‘There he is. He’s seen us.’
I sat clutching the jacket. ‘I’m so sorry, Luke . . . I can’t help it . . . I can’t explain it. It’s just holding his jacket is so painful. So raw . . . like the years have
n’t passed at all. It feels like how it was – how we both were. Like he’s just taken it off and left it on a chair – and he’s coming back for it.’
He swallowed hard, staring across the water as he fought to speak. ‘Well, there you are. It’s very important . . . very important that this has happened. Far better it’s happened now rather than later . . . if we were married. Your love for Edmund is obviously so deep, and I must understand that. I do understand it.’ His voice caught. ‘You needed to feel this way again . . . and I needed to witness it. It’s for the best.’
Chapter Forty-five
James Polcarrow said nothing but rowed us quickly back with powerful arms, steadying the bottom of the rope ladder as I climbed L’Aigrette’s hull to the safety of the deck. I still had the jacket gripped firmly in my arms. I could neither let it go nor hand it to anyone. An empty numbness had taken hold of me.
Just one look from Rose and she hurried me down the hatchway and I stood leaning against the polished steps. A stove was burning in the galley, a thick black pipe leading to the deck above; everywhere neat and tidy with plates and cups stashed behind wooden grilles, the cooking utensils swinging freely from brass hooks. A lantern drenched the wood with yellow light, everywhere polished and gleaming.
‘Come,’ whispered Rose.
A brass clock and barometer glinted above the desk, a chart laid out, an open compass. There were no portholes but a central hatch filtering daylight onto the end table. Two carved benches were upholstered in blue velvet, the black cat asleep on one of them. Rose slipped along the bench opposite, looking furious. ‘So there is another woman. Did you get the address?’