No longer was the seeking of supplies haphazard. Goods were ordered as they would be in any normal commercial company, albeit placed by a private messaging system that operated in two directions. The commercial and diplomatic traffic between Calais and Dover was a constant – occasionally delayed by weather of course, but rarely for any extended length of time.
Dirley would take receipt of the information of when a cargo of goods ordered was due to sail, from a courier sent by his main contact in France, the same person presenting the bill for the previous deliveries. That was met by the relationships between two banks, one in Paris, one in London. The same fellow would take back across the Channel the requirements for the next load with the time limits in which it was required. If traffic was occasionally interrupted and made more difficult by war, there were still ways to do business, even with putative enemies. In peace, it was oiled close to perfection.
Nothing of that nature was entrusted to a commercial postal service, certainly not one between Britain and the Continent, thus keeping information from prying eyes. Indeed, Dirley and Henry, on their last meeting, had decided this would need to apply to England too, if William Pitt succeeded in his efforts to buy out the fellow who owned the franchise for the postal service. A courier might be needed to keep Henry abreast of the dates of delivery instead of an apparently innocent but coded postal notification.
The chambers themselves reeked of a legal practice that had been in existence for centuries, tiny rooms full of heavy tomes and shelves of red-ribboned briefs overlooking toiling junior lawyers and clerks. There were also clients waiting to see the various qualified lawyers and senior partners, but a blood relation to the head of chambers was not to be kept waiting. Sitting behind a substantial desk and having greeted his nephew, Dirley pointed to an elegant silver pot on a like salver.
‘You will take coffee, I hope, before you look over the books?’
Prior to any discussion, it was a requirement that Henry examine the ledgers by which every aspect of their enterprise was listed, books that never left Dirley’s chambers. Funds expended and monies received, debts yet to be collected, lists of goods ordered and purchased, set against those disbursed. It conformed, in every respect, to a legitimate commercial concern, if you excluded the fact that only two people had access to the figures. They also benefited, though not in equal measure, from the proceeds, Henry taking the lion’s share.
‘The tedium first, as ever, Uncle,’ Henry sighed, taking a chair, knowing he was about to undertake a task he heartily disliked.
‘Necessary, Henry,’ was imparted with gravity. Dirley stood up and pulled a key from his waistcoat pocket, which he then used to unlock a large safe, his voice echoing from within the steel-lined chamber. ‘I do, as you know, take my responsibilities very seriously.’
Was there, in that statement, a sly rebuke, as if to say his nephew, the superior beneficiary of the business, should do likewise? Tempted to issue a pointed rejoinder, Henry held back on such touchiness. Several thick ledgers were extracted to be placed before him, these looked upon with less than pleasant anticipation.
‘I wonder sometimes, Uncle,’ he said, tapping the leather cover of one, ‘if you feel I don’t trust you.’
‘It would pain me to think you could ever entertain such a thought. The way to ensure you never do, is to have you fully share in everything I record, so I will leave you to your task. Ring the bell if you want anything and, of course, when you’re finished. Then we can share a capital lunch. I have taken to dining at Mrs Gould’s bagnio in Arlington Street.’
‘A new venue for pleasure, Uncle?’
Dirley smiled for the first time. ‘I bore easily, Henry.’
Once he had gone, and the first set of figures were exposed, Henry found it hard to concentrate. If he had not responded to Dirley’s seeming reproach, it still rankled and this had him reflecting on the nature of their relationship. This went back several years, to when the older man had been very much the teacher to his pupil. Henry should have been inducted into the business by his father, but there had been a raw edge to their relationship, which precluded shared confidence.
With his avuncular air and determination to fully involve his nephew, Dirley had seemed like a surrogate replacement to the now departed, rough-mannered and short-tempered parent. The tolerance that he had demonstrated − welcome to begin with − had, in Henry’s mind, evolved over time into something bordering on conceit. Just a moment ago, it had come across as more pointed.
There was no choice but to knuckle down to the task at hand, to check the figures of funds transferred to France through their London bankers. The names of the recipients were familiar, enterprises with whom Dirley had forged an excellent working relationship. They oversaw the rental of the cargo vessels, which would transport the contraband to the designated spot on the Kentish shore.
At the base of the income column of the balance sheet lay the profit, which came from a whole network of regular purchasers of smuggled goods both in Kent and London. In the metropolis it was gentleman’s clubs and a selection of the higher-class bagnios of the type Dirley liked to frequent. Places of entertainment that used food and music to cover for what most saw as their core activity: the provision of young and pretty female companionship.
The business also supplied selective London taverns where the customers possessed the right degree of discretion, like Molly-houses, a habit forced on them by the nature of their clientele. Private individuals abounded, some members of the legislature, added to which there were aristocrats aplenty. Rich men could be just as concerned with saving money as the poor.
‘I often wonder what such people would say if they knew their names were listed in our accounts, Uncle.’ That was accompanied by a braying laugh. ‘We could dun them for a fortune to keep it secret.’
Dirley, as he cut into the breast of the duck, which had followed the soup, could not avoid a frown. At the same time he was wondering if treating a nephew, one in possession of a light head, to a couple of bumpers of champagne had been a good idea. Well into the wine on the table now, he was talking as if he wanted to address the entire room.
The response was hushed. ‘I share the notion they would be displeased, Henry, I baulk at blackmail. And can I ask that you lower your voice.’
Judging by Henry’s expression this was taken as absurd and it could be said he had a point: Mrs Gould’s dining room was full and noisy with conversation, backed up by the playing of a harpsichord. True, there were other diners close by, but he guessed them to be engaged in their own concerns, not those of their neighbours.
The pretty girls, in fetching garments and expressing encouraging smiles, moving between the tables, playing at being hostesses, were not eavesdropping. They were encouraging the clients to spend money and, no doubt, lining up possible customers for a high-priced and subsequent frolic.
‘I advise you to employ the kind of care I never fail to observe, Henry,’ came as an addition, as well as portentous with gravity. ‘Do I have to remind you of the nature of our affairs?’
Henry, nose in the air, cast his eyes around the room with an air of disdain. ‘I dare say we are surrounded by all sorts of chicanery. I would wager, if you scratched beneath the silk garments of our fellow diners, you would find all sorts of mischief.’
‘Mischief does not compare. There are those who would wish to curtail what we do and such creatures do not advertise themselves, nor would I have a clue as to the extent of any knowledge they possess. They could be sitting at the next board and you’d never know. Might I remind you that the penalty is likely the gibbet?’
Henry, emptying his glass again, responded with what for him was close to levity, ‘Can we not rely on your famed legal prowess to confound such a fate? Every report tells me you’re a tiger at the bar, feared by the bench.’
Dirley was wondering at how the conversation had wandered, but it was best to indulge Henry with an answer, albeit one tinged with humour. ‘It is a lawyer�
��s principle to avoid, wherever possible and whatever the case, ending up in court.’
‘Is that not where fame is generated?’
‘No, Henry, it is where both reputation and liberty for a client, as well as his advocate, can be too easily lost. Much better to settle matters before the need to stand before a judge and jury.’
Henry was tempted to name some of the judges with whom Dirley traded, but he decided against it, given the previous rebuke. In the gap, Dirley, who had gone back to his duck, changed the subject to one more germane.
‘You said you were going to outline to me some other matters, were you not?’
‘Ah yes. Elisabeth’s plantations.’
‘She seems set on disposing of them, as I have told you. Fallen for the Wilberforce claptrap about slavery, of course.’
It was with a smug air, somewhat added to by the consumption of wine, that Henry responded, ‘The matter is no longer hers to decide.’
That stopped the cutlery, as Dirley looked at him, deeply curious. Suddenly, slightly ill at ease, Henry picked up his goblet again and drank deeply. If he had mentally rehearsed this conversation, the actuality was harder than the realisation. Taking a deep breath, he then launched into a filleted explanation of what had happened to alter matters, as well as what needed to be done legally to finalise arrangements.
‘Am I allowed to say that this alliance seems rather rushed? Elisabeth gave me no inkling of any impeding nuptials in her correspondence.’
‘She can be impetuous, Uncle, take my word on it.’
That stated, the goblet was used once more, to hide continued unease, caused not by the lies he was telling but by the look he was getting from across the table.
‘I would accede to the word forceful, Henry, but I have never, in my dealings with Elisabeth, found her to be reckless. And what is she doing getting wed, when she is still supposed to be … what’s that expression culled from Hindi … in purdah?’
‘She quite lost her wits for this Spafford fellow,’ Henry exclaimed, so loud that heads turned at the next table. A gesture from Dirley ensured the continuance was toned down to a near whisper. ‘Handsome cove, and one who could charm the birds from the trees. You do not know Elisabeth as I do, being something of an outsider in the family.’
It was not the right thing to say. Dirley was such a rare visitor to Cottington, he was almost invisible as a Tulkington. It could be counted on the fingers of one hand the number of times he had come down to East Kent since the death of Acton. That included the funeral and, of course, Elisabeth’s wedding to Stephen Langridge. On both occasions, a normally highly sociable creature had felt it necessary to retire into the background and avoid staying around after the ceremonies were over.
Dirley might be a master of obfuscation, a necessity of his profession, but there was no hiding the way the allusion had upset him. The matter of his birth was never raised, so his nephew could not know, first how acutely embarrassed he was by his bastardy and secondly, how mention of it was avoided by his family in their own bailiwick. Never alluded to in London, not that most people would have cared, they knew it led to pointed fingers or eye avoidance in a rural and more puritanical setting. A suspicion his status was known throughout the locality rendered him a rare caller.
Henry was too insensitive a soul to consider the possibility there might be a degree of jealousy in the way he was regarded; he would not have noticed it anyway, that being too well concealed. But for an accident of birth, it would have been Dirley who’d inherited what Henry held by right. It rankled that he, much older and, he was sure, ten times wiser, was obliged to treat his nephew with a degree of respect, which, in his eyes, Henry often failed to warrant.
If the mask slipped, it was soon back in place, as was the interest in the revelation. ‘Well, if Elisabeth has succumbed to this fellow’s charms and married him, what legal matters require to be settled? As her husband, he acquires her property by statute. There is no entail, unless Stephen Langridge had one drawn up in Jamaica. I do think, if he had, Elisabeth would have told me in her letters.’
Having crossed the first hurdle, Henry felt on safer ground, so he responded with confidence. ‘Charming he might be, but Harry Spafford openly admits to having no head for business. He finds the idea of the West Indies daunting and the management of plantations utterly unnerving. He has expressed a wish to pass that to me.’
‘I deduce from what you say there’s going to be no sale?’
‘Perish the thought.’
The main dishes had gone, to be replaced by a bowl of fruit, another of nuts as well as a decanter of port and a syllabub, which was tasted before Henry replied.
‘Let us say, she has seen sense. Or perhaps her Harry has persuaded her that talk of freeing slaves is poppycock. I mentioned his silver tongue, did I not?’
‘But surely,’ Dirley replied, clearly mystified, ‘if they are to be retained, it would be best if Elisabeth and this Spafford fellow went back out to Jamaica? Much easier to manage close at hand than from across the ocean, even for one shy of the responsibility. And I am sure poor Stephen, who was equally not keen on the task, managed it well, for he inherited a competent overseer.’
‘I sought to persuade Spafford, of course, but …’
The gesture of futility, waving hands, was supposed to settle matters, but there was concern across the board.
‘So what are you asking of me?’
‘Is it not obvious? That you draw up a document, by which Spafford can transfer oversight to me, which I will get him to sign.’
‘It will require to be witnessed.’
‘Which Elisabeth can do, surely?’
‘Better another, Henry. A wife can cause complications in that area. I have known them to claim duress and the courts can be sympathetic.’
Though Henry didn’t know it, the note of exasperation with which he responded was an error. So accustomed to getting his own way, he had allowed to atrophy the antennae which would have sensed his uncle’s discomfort. A highly regarded barrister, Dirley had honed skills over the years that could sense dissimulation a mile off and he was smelling it now.
A spoon was dipped into the last of the syllabub and that was savoured before Dirley spoke again. ‘Why do I have the feeling, Henry, there are things you are not telling me?’
‘I cannot guess what you mean,’ came with an arch expression and an injured tone, before a glass of port was sunk whole. ‘I am giving you matters as they stand, and I require you oblige me with your help.’
In seeking to deflect, Henry only made things worse for, unbeknown to him, Dirley’s hackles were twitching. With anyone else, he would have briskly stated his concerns but − and this seriously rankled − he had to be careful with his nephew. He had learnt long ago, he was very sensitive to anything approaching criticism.
‘Surely,’ Dirley continued, ‘it would have been best to have Elisabeth and her new husband come to see me in person, in company with you, of course, if you so desired. Or at least she could have written to me and advised of their intentions. I have always had a soft spot for her. It would have been nice to have met this fellow who you say has swept her off her feet.’
‘In a perfect world, Uncle Dirley,’ Henry insisted, with a note of conceit, partly induced by drink, ‘everything is possible. I have been asked to do this and it would please me to be obliged.’
‘Of course, Henry,’ was what Dirley said.
But he was thinking he would write to Elisabeth and ensure what was being asked for accorded with her wishes, an intention dashed by Henry’s next demand.
‘I will take it back to Cottington for signature, if you can have the required papers drawn up this afternoon.’
I’m not your damned clerk was on the tip of Dirley’s tongue. It stayed there. ‘That syllabub was rather fine. Help yourself to more port.’
‘As sweet as some of the girls employed here, Uncle,’ Henry said, looking round the room again and chortling, signalling that to hi
m the matter was closed. ‘I am trying to guess which ones you have sampled. And, after such a good lunch, I’m wondering what to do with my afternoon.’
‘I had in mind that we might look over that investment in St Mary-le-Bone. The construction of the houses you’ve put money into is well under way.’
The yawn was for effect and it was irritating, as was the salacious grin. ‘Bricks and mortar cannot compare with soft flesh.’
Dirley Tulkington left Arlington Street alone, hiring a hack to take him back to his chambers. Too mature to allow his anger to fester, he calmly put his mind to what had just occurred and quickly concluded it did not add up to a consistent whole. Elisabeth was not impetuous and from what he knew of her – less, he had to admit, than he would have liked – he was sure she cared for the social norms.
This meant she would have seen out her term of widowhood. Added to that, it would have been seen as a disgrace and would have led to social death had she married too soon after the conclusion of the accepted three years. Following that, a long period of courtship was mandatory. Accepting there were matters of concern was one thing; deciding what could be done about it was another problem entirely.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Edward Brazier entered the Three Kings at half past two on the clock, to be greeted, as ever, by the lugubrious countenance of the proprietor, Garlick, not that it stayed that way. With a gimlet eye for profit, plus an overbearing necessity to know the business of other people, the look changed to one of false indifference. The new arrival was not fooled: Garlick, if he did not know already of Brazier’s purpose, would surely bend himself to finding out.
‘Is Mr Pitt arrived yet?’
This demand was made to forestall him, only to realise it was a foolish question. The King’s First Minister never went anywhere, in these parts, without an armed escort. If the man had been here, there would have been two musket-bearing soldiers outside. Soon, when he came, they would join Dutchy and the others, so Pitt would be safer than ever from the people of Deal.
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