Brazier recalled Betsey’s aunt as well, her eyes red with weeping while clutching a handkerchief, which looked as if it had been much employed. Sarah Lovell had never given any indication of liking him, obvious from the first time he had come across her in Jamaica. As Betsey’s chaperone, sent out by her nephew after her being widowed, it had been her task to ward off the attentions of eager suitors and, given her niece’s evident beauty added to her known affluence, they had been many. But there had been real sadness when their eyes met. Surely she would not have just stood by and let this happen?
‘Your lady is likely a fighter, Capt’n, and will sort matters out, without you go seekin’ blood. Happen things will look better once you’ve had a chance to pass a word with her.’
‘I hope you’re right, Dutchy. And since you brought that brandy, you’d best fetch another four goblets. I have no desire, this night, to drink alone.’
CHAPTER TWO
John Hawker waited ’til the slow clip-clop of the hooves fell away to silence before he lifted himself up, not without pain, to clamber back onto the rutted dirt road. If he was murderously furious, Hawker also knew nothing could be done about it at this time. He needed to get back home to clean himself up, as well as to examine the scrapes and scratches with which he reckoned himself to be covered. He had spent as much time being dragged as he had staggering on the end of a rope.
His clothing was torn, both coat and breeches in many places, which mattered little, as long as he was not seen in such a state. A man who revelled in his fearsome reputation, this had him, as cloud cover obscured the moon, bless the darkness, even if it made progress difficult. Normally, night or day, John Hawker walked in dread of no man in these parts, very much the reverse. People made way for him to pass and, if some made to ignore him, it was from fear of catching his eye.
Progressing unsteadily, sometimes stumbling, both from his still muzzy condition and the uneven ground, he eventually put aside the curses and visions of revenge he would later rain down on Brazier, as well as the Jack tar bastards he led. Instead he concentrated on Henry Tulkington, for it was clear, this night, it could be imputed he had let his employer down.
It would have taken a man with the powers of a saint to foresee that two problems, the trespass of Dan Spafford’s smuggling gang, coinciding with the arrival of Brazier, would merge into one. But that might not count with a man who could be capricious. Any reckoning there would have to wait as well, but he could not avoid concern, for he had sensed recently the bond that held him and Tulkington together, to the profit of both, was not as secure as it needed to be.
It had been a long, solitary walk back to Worth for Jaleel ‘Daisy’ Trotter, one in which he had tried and utterly failed to make head or tail of that which he had just witnessed. Everything was in a state of flux, yet such had been true of these last weeks as Dan Spafford had sought a way to bring down Henry Tulkington, or at least secure a profitable hold on his own smuggling operations.
In terms of size, it was the Tulkington whale versus the Spafford minnow. Now the country was at peace, profits were cut so far to the bone that Dan was close to giving up the game altogether. His only alternative was to somehow even matters up between him and the man who controlled nearly all the running of contraband on this stretch of coast.
The first attempt, contrived by Daisy, to trick their rival into a dubious alliance had failed. But there had followed, for a brief window, a feeling of matters levelling up, this coming as they stole Tulkington’s recently landed goods, carried out in a manner that denied him certainty the Spafford gang were the culprits. Thanks to Dan’s useless son Harry, the deception had collapsed. He had given chapter and verse of what his pa had been up to.
Spafford Junior was a whoremonger and drunk, as well as a constant disappointment to his overindulgent sire. He had fallen into the hands of John Hawker, with foreseeable results, for the boy was weak. Daisy, who had known Harry since the day he was spawned, could well imagine how little of a threat to his person would have to be mooted to get from him a full admission of what he knew.
‘You should have left the little sod to rot, Dan,’ was not spoken silently, it being cried to the heavens, for there was real anger in the sentiment. ‘Or let Hawker feed him to the pigs, instead of seeking to bargain for him.’
Daisy became distraught when he thought on what might have happened to Dan, a man he had known, loved and served since they were both nippers sailing trading ships on the Baltic route. Dan had gone to treat with Tulkington for his boy, ostensibly going to the meeting alone. In truth, not trusting the bastard, he had arranged for his gang to sneak into Cottington Court, available to free Harry by force if necessary.
The ploy had been anticipated and, in a night of utter confusion, Spafford’s men had been outwitted and were now prisoners. Daisy, who had managed, in the darkness and confusion, to hide from everyone, his own mates included, was adrift in wondering how to right matters. If Dan was still alive, and that not a certainty, a way had to be found to get him free, which raised many insurmountable difficulties. He could see no way to achieve it, especially on his own.
Once he made a cot in which sleep would come eventually, one name overheard kept coming to mind, to repeat itself endlessly in his brain until the sky lightened to herald the approach of a new day. There had been a third lot in the chaotic brawl Daisy had witnessed, which had made what was bewildering enough even more confusing. He could clearly recall the name Henry Tulkington had used for what was clearly another adversary, a fellow who had aimed a pistol at Tulkington and looked set to pull the trigger?
Who in creation was this Captain Brazier?
Sarah Lovell found Henry alone and eating breakfast, informing her nephew of the comatose, drunken figure lying beside his sister’s bed, to suggest that, at the very least, the mess he had made be cleaned up. In doing so, she underlined for him the fact that he too had fallen asleep at a time when he should not have done so.
His aunt also reminded him of a factor to which he had given insufficient attention in his haste to thwart his sister: what would be expected to happen after a normal marriage, which this was most assuredly not. Much as Elisabeth had enraged him and brought upon herself the present fate, he had no notion that being wedded to a slug like Harry Spafford should proceed to anything like consummation. What might emerge from that was too horrible to contemplate.
‘Have the servants move Spafford to another room.’
‘Henry …’
Looking at Sarah Lovell, Henry would have had to be blind not to note her anxiety.
‘I acted as I did because Elisabeth gave me no choice.’ There came to him a wheedling tone, as he sought to cast himself as the victim in the affair, not an unusual way to for him to behave. ‘I tried to reason with her, but would she listen? No: as ever, she was headstrong and selfish.’
‘I believe she became strongly attracted to Captain Brazier, even more so than she showed in Jamaica.’
The response was cutting. ‘Something I sent you to the West Indies to stop.’
Sarah Lovell wanted to reply that no one could overcome such feelings, but held her tongue. She depended on Henry for the very food she ate and the bed she slept in. Given what he had just done to his own sister, there could be little doubt he would cast her out of his house if she failed to please him, and she was penniless. Her eyes dropped to avoid being seen to be defiant when faced with a challenging look.
‘I do hope I can rely on you, Aunt Sarah?’
‘Of course, Nephew.’
‘I will not have Elisabeth suffer any more than is necessary, you have my word upon it.’
Given he had dropped his head as he said this, to concentrate on his food, she was far from sure it was safe to believe him, but there was no room for a rebuttal. Best to change the subject. ‘The Reverend has gone, I take it?’
‘Home, yes.’ That was followed by a chortle. Henry Tulkington was not a man much given to laughter, very much the reverse. But
Moyle, so distant from what he should be when it came to both honesty, divinity and behaviour, always seemed to amuse him. ‘No doubt to a thorough and well-deserved wigging from his good lady wife.’
She was tempted to speak once more, to say he would benefit from such a thing, both the consort and the berating. That too was supressed, but she did manage a slight barb. ‘I will go and see to your fine addition to the household.’
The sarcasm flew right over Henry’s bowed head.
Two grooms had to be fetched from the stables, men who would have no trouble in bodily lifting Spafford, not true of the indoor servants. Her next command was to fetch hot water to Betsey’s bedroom, with cloths to clean up the vomit. Only then did she go to the room itself, to stand by her niece, taking and holding her hand as her instructions were obeyed.
Subjected to many a curious glance, all were studiously ignored. The servants would be full of inquisitiveness as to what had happened, both the night before and what was being undertaken now. With the level of hullabaloo, at least some must have overheard things happening in the twilight hours. Let them wonder and gossip, they would hear nothing from her lips.
Once the room was clear and cleaned, a fire laid and burning, she went to the door and closed it, turned the key in the lock, removed and pocketed it. Back at the bedside she gazed at a sleeping Elisabeth, reprising the depressing events of the last few hours, before moving to take a chair by the fireplace, to wonder at what the future would hold.
Henry lay back in a leather chair, the razor his manservant was wielding gently scraping the light growth off his face. Eyes on the ceiling, he sought to formulate a way to proceed, for what had occurred these last forty-eight hours − the coming together of a whole set of disparate problems − had left no time for contemplation of outcomes, indeed the possibilities had been too numerous.
There was no feeling that he had overreacted. As the heir to his position, both legal and questionable, he had seen it as vital to protect his inheritance. In addition, he valued his standing both locally and in other parts of the country; the prospect of a sister neither beholden to him nor under his control, and one who, in her intended misalliance with Brazier, might bring everything crashing down, was too dangerous to contemplate.
Not wishing to dwell on that, he turned his thinking to the one thing that was certain, an outcome that brought much satisfaction. He had smashed the Spafford gang, who had been an irritant for years. He could, of course, have brought that on at any time of his own choosing, but sense dictated it could very likely not be done without public violence.
In the smuggling game, it never served to attract attention, which open conflicts, or too aggressive a way of behaving, tended to produce. The Revenue Service, poorly paid and badly provided for, was inactive enough to suit the Tulkington purpose. To this was added the occasional sprat John Hawker threw their way, normally a group of souls operating off Deal Beach who had forewarned a man they trusted of their intentions.
Start a war, with possible public bloodshed, and it would bring in the army, as it had, three decades past, with the Hawkhurst Gang. Many of that crew had either been killed by the soldiers or had been captured to swing for their crimes, and that was not a fate to contemplate. So, much as they had irritated him and, in truth, their activities barely dented his own, Tulkington had let Spafford operate.
But stealing his goods went beyond tolerance and good fortune, which he saw almost as his due, and had delivered them into his hands. Spafford senior was chained in his cellar, the younger one upstairs, probably still snoring his head off. The other gang members had been sent off with Hawker’s men, instructions being given to make for the Deal slaughterhouse-cum-tannery, where he reckoned they would rejoin Hawker himself, once that swine Brazier released him.
Not that he was entirely clear of their baleful presence. The father presented more of a problem than the son, for he was a cussed individual, typical of the coast, rough of manner and speech, with a stubbornness that seemed to characterise the lower classes of East Kent. The original notion, of absorbing Spafford into his own operations, might appear a solution, but it was not necessarily a secure one.
Henry Tulkington was careful to keep his activities clandestine and his involvement in the actual act of smuggling at arm’s length; indeed, even having the men he employed come to Cottington had broken a rule. Everything locally went through Hawker, only financing and the arrangements for disposal were overseen by him. Spafford, who knew too much and could not necessarily be relied on to hold his tongue, might jeopardise that.
Still, in the presence of his worthless son, Henry held the same high card that had led to his capture. Threaten to harm the boy, and his father would do as he was told. Harry was easy to deal with, given the slightest threat to his person rendered him a wreck. He reasoned that as long as he was provided with the means to buy drink and entertain whores, and with the prospect of a sound thrashing always in the background, young Spafford would give him little trouble.
That accepted, other problems arose, like his lack of discretion, really a tongue too easily loosened. To have him carousing in Deal, and at his usual haunts, risked what had just happened at Cottington Court being talked about around the town and that was anathema. He considered the possibility of sending both Spafford and his sister off to the West Indies, to take charge of her plantations.
They had come to Elisabeth after the death of Stephen Langridge and would now devolve to the control of Spafford as her new spouse. The prospect of him in possession of the income from those properties, while many months distant from any oversight, did not bear thinking about. He would either ruin them through mismanagement or drink away the income they generated.
His face was being towelled when a footman entered with an unsealed and scribbled note, which simply said his presence would be appreciated, appended with the letters JH. There was no need to mention a location; that was a commonplace. He would comply, but first he had to allow himself the pleasure of a gloat, which took him to the cellar to face the cause of one half of his present concerns.
He was about to ask Grady, his senior servant-cum-valet and the man who had just shaved him, for the key to the cellar, only to recall he had demanded the man surrender it the day before. If it was given up swiftly, it had been impossible not to notice it had been done with little grace, which reprised a thought often considered: retainers had to be continually reminded of their place, especially long-serving ones, lest they get ideas above their station.
Dan Spafford was sat on the floor, seemingly half-asleep, the chain and padlock, with which John Hawker had restrained him, set to keep him well away from any of the bottles in the racks that lined the walls. The sound of Tulkington’s footsteps had him look up to see his nemesis moving towards him, slowly and carefully, pulling bottle after bottle from the racks and examining the labels.
‘It is reckoned to be one of the best cellars in Kent, Spafford, did you know that? You have slept surrounded by wines of a quality to which you could never aspire or appreciate. Not that “quality” is a word anyone would apply to you.’
‘The boy?’ Dan Spafford demanded.
‘Is alive,’ was stated without a hint of feeling.
Towering over his captive, Tulkington looked down into the square, red-skinned face, showing, as it did, evidence of poor stock, added to a life spent either at sea or on an exposed shoreline. The expression returned was not one of supplication; Spafford probably expected his fate to be terminal, yet he was not going to beg that it should be otherwise. The gaze was steady, taking in the tall, slim figure with the slightly hollow chest and the habitual, haughty expression.
‘There’s alive and barely so.’
‘Your progeny is, if you excuse what will be a sore morning head, in better health than you could imagine.’
‘Don’t mock me, Tulkington.’
‘While it would give me great pleasure to do so, I am not. But I am wondering what to do about you.’
&nb
sp; ‘I expect your worst.’
Henry put a finger and thumb to his chin, as if in deep contemplation. ‘That might be a solution.’
‘Not that your hand will be employed, whatever you have in mind. That will be left to Hawker. You see yourself as too much the gent to soil them, not that it’s true. A man can be as much a shit in silk as in sackcloth.’
That broke the studied Tulkington reserve. With a furious expression, he lashed out with a foot to kick Spafford’s knee. When his victim declined to react with a squeal of justified pain, he repeated the blow, to then make a great effort to contain himself.
‘I will not let you rile me, Spafford, for you are unworthy of my anger.’
The Spafford jaw was set tight when he replied; if he was determined not to show pain, it did not mean he felt none. ‘Unchain me and I’ll stand against you with any weapon you choose − pistol, sword or knife.’
‘What?’ Tulkington sneered, his manner of equanimity restored. ‘Grant you the attributes of a gentleman? Fists are more your station.’
‘I ask for fair, nothing more.’
‘You may ask, but it is I who dispose. It may please you to learn I have yet to decide what to do with you, so you will have to rest where you are until I do. I might even feed you, to show that I am not the ogre you imagine.’
‘The condemned man eats a hearty meal?’
‘It will not, I assure you, be hearty. You warrant no more than bread and water.’
‘Bastard,’ was the Spafford response, as Henry Tulkington walked away and up the cellar steps.
Halfway to the ground floor it dawned on him. He could not ask a servant to take even bread and water to Spafford. Despite what had happened, it was a tenet that nothing of his illicit activities was allowed to infiltrate the walls of Cottington Court. So he would be required to undertake that duty himself, a thought that came near to being nauseating.
A Lawless Place Page 2