A Lawless Place

by David Donachie

  Sitting down and reflecting on the past, it was necessary to acknowledge she had often been less than kind to him and had encouraged her friends to act likewise. Betsey refused to see what had been no more than teasing as cruel, yet he had thrown it in her face as a part justification for his behaviour. It was an excuse, of course, and a feeble one.

  He had always been a bit of a misanthrope, even as a young man – the endless teasing came from his stiff reserve in the face of the youthful gaiety of her and her companions. How could she not have noted what had become a trait of character, to which she was only seemingly the latest victim? Her years away in the West Indies scarce provided a reason not to have seen what he was like. And to think she had badgered him about his lack of a wife and sought to encourage engagement with the eligible females she had invited to Cottington Court.

  ‘God forbid that any woman should be saddled with such a husband,’ was whispered to the sea coals pulsating in the fireplace.

  Was it the gap in age between them that had helped mould his behaviour towards her? Betsey could recall clearly now, even if it had not occurred to her at the time, how her father had treated them very differently: stern with him, indulgent with her. Henry had been sent away to school, from which he evidently took no pleasure, judging by his moods in the holidays. She had been educated at home by an indulgent governess, until Sarah Lovell took over on her father’s death, but that had lasted only a couple of years. This difference in upbringing Betsey had taken as the way of raising boys, as opposed to girls.

  It was rare her thinking went back as far as this house when her father was alive; too much had happened since he passed away, albeit he was frequently absent on business. But it had been then what it was not now: a place of warmth, even if he was a widower. That was thrown into stark relief when she returned from Jamaica to find Henry even more miserable a creature than he had been previously.

  Endless thoughts whirled through her mind, one concern or recollection replacing another, only to resurface minutes later to be examined once more and gnawed upon. Even if she determined the way Henry had treated her, as well as the methods he employed in his dealings with others, was and would remain a mystery, she could not avoid continued and fruitless speculation.

  A change of location was the only answer, so Betsey left the room, locking the door behind her, to make her way to the hall and ring for her outdoor garments. She required air and, judging by the whistling of the wind from outside the windows, it was going to be given to her in abundance. Leaving the house, she had no doubt now, given what her aunt had said, she would be followed by someone. There was nothing that could be done about it, so Betsey took comfort from one fact. She might be unable to keep secret her movements, but no one could see what was in her mind.

  Henry was just departing the slaughterhouse when his sister passed through the gate to the formal garden. The wind whipping at her cloak was just as strong in the town, welcome in her case, the cause of a tightly drawn muffler and discomfort for him. Even sure he was in danger of a chill, he could still be reasonably satisfied with the outcome of his talk with Dan Spafford, added to his subsequent instructions to John Hawker.

  As usual, the former had been larded with mutual denigration, but Henry saw that as water off a duck’s back. To be held in low esteem by the likes of Dan Spafford was, to him, a badge of respectability. It only mattered that the sod had, after much equivocation, accepted the bargain proposed: the release of him and his men for the burning out of Edward Brazier and his tars.

  ‘And it will not be you who will bear the blame,’ Tulkington had imparted with what he thought was a sly look, one which Spafford took as sneering and superior. ‘Hawker will engineer a disturbance of which you will take advantage. Once the house he is renting is ablaze, you and your men can melt away.’

  ‘What’s he done to you?’ Spafford had asked.

  ‘None of your damned affair,’ had come out as more vehement than was required. It had seriously annoyed Tulkington the way Spafford had grinned at his outburst, no doubt delighted at the thought of someone getting so far under his enemy’s skin as to knock him off balance. ‘Just take it as a warning of what could happen to you.’

  ‘Will it get my Harry free?’

  ‘Spafford, your Harry is in no danger.’

  ‘How do I know you’re telling the truth?’

  ‘You don’t.’

  ‘Whoever this Brazier is, he will blame you.’

  ‘How can he, when I will be far away from Deal?’

  Back in the upstairs office, Tulkington had explained what he wanted done, which met with some satisfaction from his man. Yet it was not entirely the case: Hawker wanted personal retribution for both the blow he had taken and the humiliation he had suffered, and made the mistake of saying so.

  ‘You’re to stay well away, John,’ had been the snapped response. ‘Do not go near Brazier’s dwelling. Just get things moving with the mob.’

  ‘Speaking of the mob, what’s to stir them?’

  ‘I suggest a rumour that Brazier has come to Deal to put a cap on smuggling. That, spread along the beach, should suffice to get our hovellers and wherrymen fired up. He visited Pitt at Walmer Castle, you told me, so adding that much-hated name to the tale will pay dividends.’

  ‘I’ll spread he’s Pitt’s secret agent, hiding his true purpose for taking a house here.’

  ‘That will do nicely. He will struggle to get out alive if the mob thinks it the case.’

  ‘Need a day or two to sow the story.’

  ‘Maybe more will be required. I wish to be well away from Cottington when this happens. Besides, you must prepare for the next cargo.’

  Hawker was curious as to where Tulkington would be. It was past unusual for him to be absent with a load coming in. But he had not bothered to enquire, knowing it to be a waste of time.

  Edward Brazier, having collected his companions from Admiral Pollock’s, had returned to Deal from what he considered to be a waste of his time. Once the horses had been accommodated in the stables he joined the others in the parlour, Joe Lascelles handing over a folded and sealed letter, bearing only a last name, with no rank and no identifying design on the wax.

  ‘This one came second, Capt’n. Leastways, the lad delivering it didn’t demand it be paid for.’

  The questioning look had Joe continue, describing the scruffy ragamuffin who had demanded money for a previous missive, as against the good-mannered and good-looking young cove who brought the second.

  ‘Stank of attar too, that one,’ Joe sniffed.

  Within his explanation, there was a bit of hesitation; Joe was wondering if he had done right. Brazier was considering the same question, until he reasoned, though doubt was not entirely banished, Betsey would not have employed a street urchin as a messenger.

  ‘Well, let us see what this one says.’

  Opened, it revealed a very high standard of writing and composition, with several flowery phrases hailing his personality and standing, before it got to the purpose. This was to tell him the sender had observed, without any details, what occurred at Cottington Court and might prove an ally if he wished to confound Henry Tulkington.

  ‘Signed Jaleel Trotter,’ he said, having explained the contents to his quartet of supporters.

  ‘Is he not the one you was weeks looking for?’ asked Dutchy. ‘Went by the name of Daisy.’

  ‘Well remembered,’ added Peddler, who had looked confused at the name. ‘But what does the cove mean by confounding Tulkington?’

  ‘Are you daft? He means tae turn tables on the sod.’

  ‘I ain’t daft Cocky. I is probing.’

  ‘You’ll never guess where he’s asked to meet me.’ Brazier let the curiosity linger for a moment, before adding. ‘That damned Molly-house along Middle Street.’

  ‘Explains the messenger,’ Peddler intoned.

  ‘That’s one you can go to alone,’ Dutchy said, only half in jest.

  ‘When?’ demanded
Cocky, which was more to the point.

  ‘At my convenience. He will wait there to hear.’ Brazier went to hover over the empty grate, head bowed. ‘I have to meet him, for we’re at a stand right now. Maybe he has nothing to offer …’

  ‘And maybe it’s a trap, Capt’n,’ Dutchy suggested. ‘That means we must all go with you, and armed.’

  ‘Which might be a good way to scare him off. Besides, how can I be at risk from a fellow know as Daisy?’

  ‘If ye dinna ken that, you’re no’ a sailor.’

  Dutchy pitched in again. ‘How about a note back, Capt’n, suggesting a meet at the Old Playhouse. If he’s on the up, he’ll be safe there and so might we.’

  ‘Good thinking, I’ll write to him now.’

  ‘I’d suggest tomorrow,’ said Joe. ‘If he’s got anything planned, we’ll have a chance to look out for trouble before it arrives.’

  Brazier nodded. ‘It will also give me time to alert Saoirse too. If anything is not right, she’ll smoke it well beforehand.’

  ‘Gives us the whole day to keep a lookout.’

  ‘Get the fire lit in the kitchen, Joe,’ Peddler asked. ‘And never worry what’s happening on the morrow. That Admiral Pollock eats like an old man and so do his servants. I got a hole where my gut should be.’

  ‘Who’s going to deliver my reply?’

  The reluctance of all four, as they looked at each other, made Brazier laugh, which was the first time he’d done so the whole day, and the one before it too.

  Daisy Trotter hadn’t spent the day in idleness, waiting for a response. Deal leaked like a sieve when it came to what was going on behind closed doors, though it was essential to be able to sort fact from rumour, the spreading of which was a favourite hobby. He saw John Hawker once more, on his tax-gathering rounds, the now-black eye very obvious and an object of much attention, if not comment.

  The road past the slaughterhouse was busy enough to watch for a bit, without attracting too much attention. With folk coming and going, farmers arranging to have their stock butchered or traders exiting with leather hides over their shoulders, he got a chance to ask, in a chatty way, what was going on inside. There were a lot of people about, not involved in the function of the place, and that was unusual enough to remark upon, which indicated an original supposition had been correct.

  It was not guesswork, really; Daisy, his letter penned and sent, mulling over a glass of Basil the Bulgar’s sloe gin, put his mind to the problem. He could think of no other place where Hawker could do what was needed that would not be obvious enough to cause comment. The slaughterhouse was a location in which he had visited the sod before, in the opening moves to set up the first meeting between Tulkington and Dan.

  So wandering in and past the killing floor could have been seen as natural; it was not and caused alarm. Hawker’s men hustled him back out into the street, which they would only have done if they had something to hide. Satisfied in his own mind, he made his way back to Basil’s to wait for a reply from Brazier. The time it took in coming drove him to distraction and, tired from lack of sleep and a day of worry, he retired to Basil’s upstairs room to lay down.

  ‘Daisy,’ came with a hand shaking his shoulder, ‘letter’s come.’

  He opened his eyes, to look into the face of the handsome young man who had penned his own letter and delivered it. Blonde curly hair, blue eyes, a soft enchanting voice and the slightly plump face of one not yet fully mature. A thing of beauty. However much Daisy wished it otherwise, he knew it was not for him.

  There was a likeness to a younger, less debauched Harry Spafford there, which brought to mind the last encounter: he still had the shiners from the headbutt Harry had given him. But it was not that which was truly painful and pricked his eyes with tears, it was the betrayal of trust the resemblance brought back.

  ‘Thank you, Barnaby.’

  This was imparted in a croaked, just-woken tone of voice. Taking the letter with one hand, he wiped his damp eyes with the other sleeve. After a glance at what was no more than a jumble to him the letter was handed over.

  ‘Need your skills once more, and I hope matters have been set in motion, as desired?’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Unbeknown to Edward Brazier, another difficulty was looming: what could be said as a chicken coming home to roost. This stemmed from the arrival, off the River Medway, of the 74-gun ship-of-the-line, HMS Alcide, fresh back from the West Indies, where she had served as flagship to whatever officer had charge of the Jamaica Station. This had included Brazier’s old, late and troubling commander, Admiral Sir William Hassall.

  His replacement having come out in another seventy-four, Alcide was returning home, after years abroad, to be assessed as fit for continued service. But she was definitely to be laid up in ordinary, anchored in the Nore roads, as surplus to peacetime requirements. This meant any stores she carried were stripped out of her holds, to be taken ashore, warehoused and checked for monetary value against the purser’s account.

  The same applied to the guns, great and small, hand weapons, powder, flintlocks, spare sails and cordage, while her standing rigging was taken down, her upper masts and yards likewise, to be laid along the deck leaving her floating under a trio of stunted and bare lower poles. Finally, all the necessary work completed, her crew was paid off, the last act of the captain being to hand over the ship to the boatswain, a standing officer, who would stay with her until she was recommissioned, putting the whole process into reverse.

  The crew, much reduced from that which had set out a decade previously, albeit augmented by drafts sent out from England, came ashore, to disperse to the various places from which they hailed. Others would make for London, or the other seaports from which they might get a berth on a merchant vessel. Many, the less practical, lingered in Chatham, drinking and carousing, until the pay they had accumulated was spent, leaving them, as too often happened with men of the sea, destitute.

  For Brazier, if he had known of it, his concerns would have extended to the captain of HMS Alcide and his lieutenants. They would be cast ashore with little prospect of future employment, to live on half-pay until the fleet expanded again, which would only happen with the outbreak of another war. Like him, they would expend every ounce of energy and plague every contact, however remote, to get themselves a new position.

  They would, beached or not, gossip with their naval peers and civilian contacts and one of the subjects occasionally discussed would be the strange circumstances surrounding the untimely death of Admiral Hassall. An even more engaging topic, namely prize money, would frequently raise its head, for envy was paramount on a subject close to every serving officer’s heart.

  Part of that would relate to the outrageous good fortune that had attended upon Captain Edward Brazier and the crew of HMS Diomede, not long after Hassall’s strange and disconcerting demise. That the two could be linked was tenuous, but that did nothing to damp speculation.

  And to those inclined to dabble in conspiracy, it could mean a whole lot more.

  Blissfully in ignorance of what this might portend, Brazier called upon Saoirse Riorden, to ask that a private space be made available for a meeting with Daisy Trotter that evening. She was not the kind to assent to anything of which she was not fully aware, which extracted from him an explanation, including the fact that Jaleel Trotter claimed to have been present at Cottington Court on the fateful night of the sham wedding.

  This led to an admission that he had failed to tell her everything. Nothing about the whole host of men who had appeared as he was challenging Tulkington added to the impression he had, and he was too mentally shocked to think further on it, to consider that there had been some kind of fracas. It was with greater certainty he could talk of what had happened with Hawker.

  ‘I saw the evidence this very morning, and I have to say the black eye was a beauty. He’ll not forgive you that.’

  ‘About which I do not care, given I feel I’m paying him back.’

  ‘S
o − Trotter, what is it you’re hoping for?’

  ‘If only I could tell you. This Daisy has asked to meet with me on a subject, he claims, mutually beneficial and I have no great desire it should be where he suggested.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘The Molly-house in Middle Street. I suggested here would be best.’

  The face pinched in a way Brazier had seen before, a sure sign of exasperation. ‘Without asking beforehand. Is that not what would be known as a liberty?’

  It was a slightly shamefaced Brazier who responded. ‘I would prefer not to meet in a place where we could be observed, but if you cannot oblige …’

  ‘Why not Quebec House?’

  ‘Trotter didn’t say so, but since he made no mention of that as a possibility, I reckon it’s an invitation he would decline. He wants to meet somewhere public. I want to do so somewhere safe.’

  ‘So, is it danger you’re talking about?’

  ‘Saoirse, I have no idea. But my lads will be with me as they are now, and I have the feeling he will be coming alone.’

  ‘By reputation he is one for the quiet knife in the back, Edward, I told you that afore, I recall. Make sure he’s not coming to skewer you.’

  ‘I’m aware of it,’ he replied, not willing to admit he’d forgotten.

  ‘I take it you don’t know Daisy Trotter is Dan Spafford’s right-hand man.’

  ‘That name again,’ was spat out.

  ‘Dan is Harry’s father, though if he had any sense, he would have disowned the louse long past. Instead, he pays his debts to tavern and whores alike, which must strain his purse.’