‘I’m told you are shortly to leave us, Mrs Langridge.’
‘Is that of any interest to you, sir?’ came from Sarah Lovell. Betsey, on the other hand, had smiled and nodded in a way that indicated a measure of regret.
Emboldened he had replied, ‘It is surely so, when the island will be much diminished by the loss, as will I.’
Lovell’s parasol spun furiously. ‘By the Lord, sir, you are overbold.’
Brazier had ignored her and looked hard at Betsey, but with a care to keep his voice soft. The smile he had aimed at her was meant as both a message and one he wished to be taken as utterly genuine. ‘I cannot feel we have had enough time to properly acquaint ourselves.’
‘And you would wish that altered, Captain?’
‘I would most certainly like it to be so.’
‘Elisabeth, I see the governor looking in our direction. I do believe he wishes our presence.’
That had been responded to with a sweet smile, even if the words were outright rejection. ‘He has any number of people who want his attention, Aunt Sarah, so I do not fear he will miss ours. If you wish to engage with him, please feel free to do so.’
The intake of breath was audible, but Lovell had not moved, as Brazier used a shoulder to partially cut her off.
‘Is it true, you’re leaving?’ A nod. ‘To return to?’
‘Deal in Kent, to my family home.’
‘Which is?
‘Cottington Court, just outside the town. It overlooks the anchorage.’
‘It is a part of the world with which I’m unfamiliar,’ had seemed a banal rejoinder. ‘I have touched at the Downs, of course, but spent no time there.’
Another sweet and engaging smile. ‘Then you may find much of interest should you do so.’
The sound coming from her aunt’s throat then would not have shamed a person dying from the bloody flux, being half-cough and half-groan. But her charge was not going to be deflected.
‘But I do not leave before Race Day, so perhaps we will come across each other there.’
‘Would I be allowed to ask for a commitment to that?’
‘You most certainly would not,’ Sarah Lovell had snapped.
The look on Betsey’s face, especially the twinkle in her eyes, had stated the precise opposite. ‘Perhaps you will enter and race, Captain?’
‘I am a man at home on the deck of a ship, Mrs Langridge, not the back of a horse.’
‘Quite daring in that milieu, I’m informed.’ So she had been asking about him. ‘I suspect you would be audacious mounted, if you were more familiar with horses.’
‘Audacity would scarce keep me in the saddle, Mrs Langridge. But in other things, besides horsemanship, I might be seen to be foolhardy.’
‘Elisabeth, I fear I am suffering from too much heat.’
They had both so nearly laughed, not at the excuse being made but at a connection between them, the sharing of a similar thought. If heat was being generated, it was in the look exchanged, or perhaps in the palpitations of the Lovell concerns. Tight control had been necessary for Edward Brazier to keep a straight face: it had been impossible to miss the tightness of Betsey’s jaw, as she fought a similar affliction.
‘Perhaps a cooling drink, Aunt Sarah.’
‘Allow me to escort you to the marquee.’
‘That would be most kind, Captain Brazier.’
His intention to take Betsey’s arm had been thwarted by determination: Sarah Lovell got between them to ensure it could not be, which left him with a dilemma. Did he take her arm, this being something her niece alluded to with a mischievous grin?
‘I’m sure my aunt would welcome your support, Captain.’
‘Given willingly,’ he had said, to have it rudely refused.
If mutual attraction had finally been cemented, it had happened at the Race Day, even if it was all in gesture and gentle innuendo. With crowds occasionally surging to watch the horses speed by, added to the sound of thudding hooves, Sarah Lovell’s immediate presence and her ability to overhear had become severely curtailed.
When he gently put his hand on Betsey’s back, to edge her towards the approaching runners, she had offered no resistance, which was reassuring while, with the crowd closing behind them, her aunt had become marooned. Even more telling was the slight frisson he had felt running up his arm on contact, like a current of electricity. Did she feel it too? It was not a question he could ask.
‘Would you be offended, if I was to say I will miss you?’
‘How could anyone be put out by such a compliment?’
‘I am forced to wonder what it is you’re going back to.’
‘Just my brother and my home.’
‘I’ve never commiserated with you for your loss. I have a feeling I would have liked your late husband.’
‘He was a man easy to like, Captain Brazier.’
‘Would that be a hard condition to replicate?’
He had felt her tense then and he knew why, for that was very close to a step too far. The mounts had sped by at the same time, their hooves throwing up clods of the heavily watered earth, one heading straight for Betsey’s face. As she had recoiled into his hand, he had held her firmly, reaching out with the other to catch it in mid-air. With an exaggerated bow, he then presented it to her.
‘A souvenir to remember the day by, Mrs Langridge, and perhaps to remember me also.’
Passage might have been booked, but the ship in which she would travel had yet to arrive, such things being seasonal. Much in the nature of duty happened in the meantime, which had kept Brazier from any further pursuit. There was the sudden and mysterious death of Admiral Hassall while he was on patrol, immediately after which, HMS Diomede had put to sea a second time for a cruise that saw the deceased admiral buried with fitting ceremony.
That was only one part of his purpose. Remaining at sea, having been supplied with intelligence as to where it would be intercepted, Brazier had gone on to capture and bring back to Kingston Harbour the Spanish plate ship he had set off to intercept. He had also brought in prisoners from the French privateer to which the Santa Clara had fallen, their ship having been sent to the bottom of the sea.
This had added much to the general talk of a colony in which one day tended to meld into another, with little in the way of incident. Hassall’s untimely demise, the subject of curious speculation, soon faded from the gossip, in favour of conjecture on how much Brazier and his crew had earned from their Spanish prize. If fabulous figures had been bandied about, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind the gains were substantial.
He had met Betsey one more time, at a ball given by Kitty Clarke to celebrate his good fortune, one more occasion when every indication he could detect pointed towards a mutual magnetism. He could recall clearly, as he dressed himself, Sarah Lovell’s parting shot when it had been time to depart, as well as the pinched expression that accompanied it.
‘Goodbye, Captain Brazier, I doubt we shall meet again.’
He had looked at Betsey then, hoping she would counter the sentiment, but she had merely dropped her gaze, to leave him in excruciating limbo.
CHAPTER FOUR
Henry Tulkington could scarce avoid noticing the heavy blackening round John Hawker’s right eye. With no desire to be caught staring, he turned away, as he often did, to stand by the stove, removing his gloves and warming his hands over the bowl of herbs sat on top. They were placed to take away the noxious, all-pervading odours of the slaughterhouse and tannery. The noise of dying animals, when slaughter was in progress, was harder to disguise.
The bruise was large, blueish going yellow at the edges, which did nothing for a countenance far from flattering to begin with. With his large head and pockmarked face, as well as a nose that showed evidence of many a thump, Hawker would have struggled to claim allure. He also had a rough gravel voice, allied to an expression which, as it implied a threat of violence, rendered him generally disagreeable.
That said, Hawker always
addressed Henry Tulkington with respect, even if on this day he was in dispute with a proposal. ‘I won’t say I is happy with havin’ any of Spafford’s lot getting involved in our affairs.’
‘Why?’ was delivered in a level tone, with a back still turned.
‘They’re a mouthy lot and tavern boasters, who we can’t keep locked away forever. Let loose, they’re not like to keep quiet ’bout last night either, regardless of threat. It’ll be all over Deal an’ beyond in a week. Might be, anyway, since we missed Daisy Trotter.’
‘He’s on his own and, from what you tell me, no great shakes in the fighting line?’
‘Skin and bone, and ugly with it, but handy with a blade. Happen he wasn’t there last night, for it would have suited him to stab someone in the dark. If he causes trouble, I know where to find him.’
‘Last night?’ Tulkington said enigmatically, raising his head to look at the roof beams: the thought of Trotter free did not seem to trouble him. ‘Do we need to examine that, John? All that mayhem was far from as it should have been.’
‘Would have been safe if it’d been just the Spafford lot,’ Hawker protested, stung by the criticism. ‘Could have seen to them without too much trouble. The others, well …’
The implied question was left hanging, and with it John Hawker’s curiosity about what he would dearly love to know. Had the near-simultaneous arrival of Brazier and his tars been a coincidence or was it anticipated? If the latter, he should have been forewarned so it could have been dealt with, possibly before they even got into the grounds.
His recollection was vague on what happened after the discovery of their presence, due to the incapacitating clout he took in the dark from one of their number. Tempted to enquire, he held his tongue; any question there did not appear welcome and he would probably whistle for an answer. This thought increased the feeling that had been growing on him these last few days: that things did not feel right between him and Tulkington.
This disquiet he could date back to the first meeting, in a hilltop coach, he and Daisy Trotter had brokered between his employer and Dan Spafford. It had taken weeks to arrange, due to deep mutual suspicion, with no indication of distrust having been eased when it ended. Not that he had been told anything; it was only later he found out things had been said, not agreements but telling facts, of which he should not have been kept in ignorance.
Prior to that day, John Hawker had felt himself trusted completely within the remit of his responsibilities, happily accepting there were areas of the whole to which he was not privy. The feeling of things not being as they were rendered him unhappy, but it was not his sole concern. To his mind, and he had stated it before the events of the night, the way he had been asked to deal with the Spafford lot was all wrong.
Putting a cap on their thieving of his contraband had been the primary aim. Presenting them a chance to invade Cottington Court and taking them prisoner created a whole set of other problems. To his way of thinking, this made things worse not better. His solution would have been to beard them on their own patch, with superior numbers, and mete out a sound beating, applied especially to their leader and his useless son. A good hiding was not something to go around boasting about, very much the opposite: it would be a matter of shame.
Tulkington, who had denied him the opportunity to do that, turned and faced Hawker, his expression giving nothing away, to ask about the men captured and where they were now.
‘Locked up, chained together and under guard in the smaller cowshed.’
‘That eye of yours, it’s bound to cause comment.’
‘None of which will reach my ears.’
The abrupt change of subject had thrown Hawker and, if the reply was stated with certainty, he was not about to put off his main concern. ‘Can I reckon, from your mood, gettin’ rid of Spafford’s lot, permanent like, is not favoured?’
The response was terse, as if the notion was foolish. ‘That means over a dozen bodies and too many questions. They are all men known in the town and, if they disappear …’
‘Been known for a smuggling lugger to founder often enough,’ Hawker persisted, ‘all hands going down.’
The nod was an acknowledgement of a fact, but it did not extend to agreement. ‘Why are you so sure you can’t trust them?’
‘What I’m sure of, Mr Tulkington, is I don’t want to have to.’
He might as well have said, for fear of blame, if they proved to be unreliable. Hawker was sure Tulkington got the point but he did not do what was wanted, which was for him to accept responsibility.
‘Best you speak to them as a first step.’
‘To say?’
‘It might help to reassure them, whatever happens, they’re not going to end up in a pork barrel.’
This was a rumour, given he ran the slaughterhouse, which fed into Hawker’s reputation. It wasn’t true that some of his victims ended up as cut and salted meat, food sent aboard departing ships, where the barrels would not be opened for months. Nor did he sell on the skins of his victims, to be made into the softest of saddles and other high-value artefacts. But it suited him to allow the story of such a fate to circulate; the thought induced a terrible fear in people who might be tempted to cross him.
‘For now, keep them fed until I decide what to do. And send a couple of your most reliable men up to Cottington with a covered cart tonight, the kind who know how to keep their mouths shut. They are to ask for me in person. I can’t keep Dan Spafford in my cellar forever, so it’s best he too is brought here, with due discretion, but kept separate.’
‘He, of all, should disappear.’
‘Perhaps?’ was the enigmatic reply. Tulkington then pulled a letter from his pocket and handed it over, prior to putting on his gloves, a sure sign that, for him, at this moment, the matter was dealt with. ‘I need you to see that delivered, John. It is an invitation to Brazier that he depart Deal.’
‘Ain’t paid much attention afore.’
That was occasion for a thin smile and, finally, an explanation of what had taken place while Hawker was too groggy to register anything around him. It was one listened to impassively, though it as good as told him Brazier had been expected. He had been kept in ignorance of the possibility and paid the price in both pain and pride. If he was seething inwardly, he could let nothing show on his face.
Not that Tulkington noticed, he being too busy gloating. ‘Once it’s delivered, the house has to be watched for signs he has heeded my instruction.’
‘And if not?’
‘Then pressure will have to be applied.’
Hawker pointed a finger to his bruised face. ‘I need to get even for this.’
A touch of exasperation came with the response. ‘There’s a greater purpose at stake, man. I need him gone, so matters can settle. My wish is that, hopes dashed, he will just go.’
Your purpose, Hawker was thinking, not mine.
Edward Brazier sat at his writing desk, quill in hand, though yet to be dipped in ink, given he was wondering what to say. At the back of his mind was a nagging doubt, the thought that, somehow, Betsey had been complicit in what had occurred; irksome because, even if he did not really believe it, the thought would not go away. Normally a fluid penman – as a King’s officer his rank involved endless correspondence – being stuck for an opening was uncomfortable.
He forced himself to write his address and the date, only to realise that could be unwise. The letter, taken in by a servant, could be opened prior to being handed to Betsey. This engendered another even more depressing possibility: she might not get anything he sent to her at all. Yet he required certainty about what had happened and only she could provide it, which led to thoughts that an intermediary might be required, one who could carry his messages verbally, without them being intercepted.
It might provide a solution, yet it was far from an easy one to execute. He had been in Deal for weeks now, but that did not change his status much in what was a taut society. He was still a stranger and had
few acquaintances locally who could bridge the divide between him and the woman he had set out to marry.
It was almost by its own volition that the quill moved, but it was not to write to her, but to the Admiralty, on a subject with which he was familiar; the composition of his request for command of a ship required no real thought. If what followed was more prevarication, the letters he penned to various people, it served a purpose: they took his mind off his most pressing concern.
There was one for his prize agent in London, requiring an update on his position financially, others to naval acquaintances with whom he regularly corresponded, not least his first captain, now Admiral Sir Eustace Pollock. This always ended with a commitment to call upon him when time permitted and that induced a pause. Pollock was not far away in the hamlet of Adisham. Would keeping such a promise be a way of keeping his mind off his present difficulties?
He felt very much the need to talk to someone, if only to pause the spin of speculation with which he was assailed. Much as he might seek to control his imagination and dismiss as absurd the more fanciful places to which his worries took him, he was failing, so the quill was thrown aside. Brazier stood up and made for the front door, grabbing his hat on the way. The slamming forced those who escorted him everywhere to rush to follow.
‘Mood’s not improved,’ opined Cocky Logan, as he grabbed his weapons.
‘Be a while, I reckon,’ was Dutchy Holland’s response. ‘If ever.’
Peddler was the last to join them in the narrow street, just in time to see their captain disappear, turning left and heading towards the Lower Valley Road. He had in his hand the sheathed sword Brazier had left behind.
‘Serve him right if he gets a sandbag round his earhole.’
Striding out, Edward Brazier had a look in his eye that tended to clear a path through anyone seeking to share his space, which, given his height and build, was not contained to begin with. For once, crossing the busy thoroughfare on which the town centred, the sweeper failed to get a coin for clearing the dust and dung. This had him stop and wonder, leaning on his broom, for the kindly Captain Brazier had never failed to tip him half a penny before.
A Lawless Place Page 4