Not that the Excise being overly keen was a commonplace. If the fellow in charge in Dover was poorly paid, it was even more the case with the six inept underlings he oversaw. As a group, they were distant from Corcoran, the fellow placed in the centre of the county with overall authority. He might provide more men if information received warranted it, enough to watch over a goodly stretch of the shore. They would also need to be sufficient to take on and capture men who would not surrender lightly.
Corcoran was responsible for many miles of coastline, which ran from the shore opposite the City of London all the way to the mouth of the Thames, which took in such smuggling hotbeds as Gravesend, the Isles of Grain and Sheppey, Whitstable, Faversham, Margate and Ramsgate. Arcing round the North Foreland, his domain ran down past Dover and on to Folkestone, to meet the border with Sussex near Rye, itself overlooking the Romney Marshes, now used for running contraband by the successors to the murderous Hawkhurst Gang.
Kent had near the longest stretch of shore requiring to be patrolled in the whole of England. It was blessed, or cursed if you saw it that way, with miles of open beaches, many backed by marshland, with the added advantage, for many a villain, of being within a day’s sailing distance of France and thus open to easy penetration.
The Tulkington operations were by far the most refined and required the involvement of many people. To completely unload a heavily laden cargo vessel in a few hours of darkness, as well as get the consignment to where it could be safely stored, took many hands. These were provided by men who made a meagre living by fishing, aided by a couple of dozen who worked as farm labourers or apprentices, creatures poorly enough rewarded in their daily toil to eagerly work through the night for a few pennies reward.
Hawker would alert the end of a grapevine which stretched throughout the surrounding area, a slow-burning fuse of whispers which would have people ready to combine when the final alert was issued. That depended on a whole raft of factors: a cloudless night might not serve, for even a dull eye could see for miles if the moon was full and bright. Neither would too rough a sea state: beaching a ship on a pebble shore, with crashing waves, risked serious damage to the hull. In addition, it could be driven too far ashore to float off again when empty.
Lastly, but in truth the first consideration, was the right kind of tide at a suitable time of day. It should be off its peak after nightfall and near to the end of falling when the vessel made its landfall. An anchor was always dropped off the stern on approach, one that could be used to haul the ship off on the capstan if it showed any signs of being stuck. A rising sea level was best when unloading was complete, one which would raise a very much lighter vessel naturally, so it floated away without outside agency.
Hawker rode out to St Margaret’s Bay, a high-sided horseshoe of an inlet between Deal and Dover, surrounded by chalk cliffs, with a pebble strand that could only be reached by precipitous paths. Halfway down one of those sat a dilapidated hut, which would be occupied in the days before the cargo was due, with a command to keep an eye open for anything unusual. A trapdoor, set within the floor, provided access to a series of tunnels in the chalk, some of which went through large, carved-out storage chambers, to continue all the way down to just above shore level. Blocked off with gorse bush-covered shutters, the entrances had long ladder-like ramps by which to access the beach and the contraband.
Two others, narrow, with room enough for only one body, ran to a high point on each arm of the bay, open at the end. Visible only from the sea, they formed the points by which lights could be shone to signal it was safe to make a landfall. Those same lights would provide navigation points so the vessel would ground in the middle of the strand and well away from the sharp rocks on either edge.
Hawker’s men were not there to carry cargo, but to provide the armed sentinels covering the cliff top pathways, there to warn of any approach by the Revenue men. That spotted, a prearranged plan of dispersal was followed using even more tunnels, longer ones running inland to take everyone well beyond the area of danger. It was necessary to check that all was in place and the various articles required were where they should be and functioning, also that no nosy sod had been sneaking around where they were not wanted.
Sure all was well and back at the top of the cliffs, where he had tethered his mount to a gorse bush, Hawker stood for a while to look around him. The day was clear enough, with no mid-Channel haze, which gave him a sight of the grey shore of France. To the south, the ground rose, a greensward above the white cliffs, the pathway leading to a point which overlooked Dover Harbour as well as the berth of that Revenue Cutter. To the north was gently sloping farming land which ran down to overlook the sea, crashing on to the rocks below at high tide. At its far end the hill dropped down to Kingsdown beach, another strand of pebbles, which ran uninterrupted for several miles, all the way to the Stour Estuary.
Hawker was stood overlooking a spot the Tulkington line had claimed, fought for and enforced as their own, and the Lord help anyone who challenged them. It was possible for him, and not for the first time, as he contemplated a perfect setting for the running of contraband, to allow himself a smile, brought on by a rare feeling. He could almost summon up sympathy for the poor sods of the Revenue: the task they had was impossible.
The man who employed John Hawker was coaching to the Medway, a busy route, as it led from London to one of the main bases of the Royal Navy. It was thus one much frequented by sea officers, two of whom, both post captains, were sharing the journey. One was young-looking, if you allowed for a face made ruddy by the wind, and he wore only a single epaulette, which indicated he was in that rank for less than three years. His companion was older and had two, as well as a face well battered by weather, he being clearly comfortable in his longer held rank.
The navy, being a community, allowed Henry to enquire if they were acquainted with a certain Captain Edward Brazier. He was immediately appraised, in some detail, of the luck that had attended that officer in the Caribbean. No attempt was made to disguise the feelings of envy at Brazier’s good fortune. Nor did they hold back on the wish they too should be gifted something similar.
This led their fellow passenger to reflect that, for all the guff such men spouted about serving King and Country, most blue-coated salts, from midshipman to admiral, were more interested in making money than earning glory. Of course, if both could be combined, that added up to perfection. But a full purse took precedence over public acclaim.
As he listened to them enumerating all the things Brazier could buy with his fluke capture, it was comforting to sense their naked avarice. This reinforced a view long held: everyone who might disapprove of his way of making money would bite off his hand for the chance to do likewise. Pious hypocrisy abounded, and at least he could absolve himself of that sin.
‘Rumours. What rumours?’
Lost in thought, he had only partially picked up what these fellows had moved on to, which obliged them to repeat the gossip doing the rounds in the service. This hinted Brazier might have come by his fortune less by fair means than foul. Asked to tell him more, it was frustrating the way they began to hedge. The older one of the pair even said openly that such accusations attended anyone who had taken a prize vessel of such value and shouldn’t be given too much credence.
The younger captain, obviously just as eager to avoid bringing the service into disrepute, changed the subject by asking Henry the reasons for his own journey to Chatham, an enquiry easily swept aside by the mention of business. To the enquiring looks that engendered, on what business, he merely responded to with an enigmatic smile; why bother to concoct a lie for people who, to his mind, were unworthy of the effort?
Lapsing into silence, he tried to assess what he had gleaned, which, mostly due to his own inattention, was not much. There was, it appeared, some question hanging over Brazier’s head and it involved the sudden death of his commanding officer. How did that chime with what had been previously imparted to him by his Uncle Dirley? That th
e sod was out of favour at Windsor Castle?
Idle speculation on a man he believed would soon be removed from his life occupied him until the coach topped the hill. This overlooked the broad valley of the River Medway, at which point his thinking turned to his forthcoming meeting and what he was about to demand. There was one clause in the agreement Dirley had drawn up about which he was unhappy: the one revoking his control, should misfortune strike Spafford. He had, of course, queried it, only to be left with the feeling his uncle, in quoting necessity, had fobbed him off in his response.
‘Never mind, it will serve.’
‘Sir?’ the younger officer enquired, to get an annoyed shake of the head and something close to a glare, not for the query, but for Henry being made aware he had spoken out loud.
Nothing more was said until the coach pulled into the courtyard of the Angel Inn, at which point polite goodbyes saw the trio part company. Having bespoken a room in advance by letter – he would spend the night in Chatham, given that was where he had accommodated Spafford – Henry had one task only, and that was to find the sod.
His enquiry of the staff first told him he was not within, while the looks that went with the information indicated Spafford was seen as a less than perfect guest. Not that anyone was more forthcoming when he enquired on the matter, except to say there was no assurance he would rest his head here, as he was wont to sleep elsewhere.
‘Then I require someone to go and find him.’
This request was taken to the proprietor, who undertook to engage a couple of young lads to go in search, this being carried out while Henry had his dinner. With still no sign of Spafford on completion, he went to his room to write to Dirley and ask him to enquire about what other shadows might cloud Brazier’s reputation. Even if he scarcely cared, the notion of throwing some diminishing facts in his sister’s face was something to be sweetly anticipated.
Sarah Lovell made sure, with Henry absent, that all post not addressed to him came to her, so a letter that had gone off in the mail coach, before her nephew left London, arrived at Cottington Court before he did. The superscription told her it came from Lincoln’s Inn, which she knew to be the address of Dirley Tulkington and there was not much surprise in that. The query lay in the name of the addressee. What was he writing to Elisabeth about?
The letter was put in a drawer to await Henry but, as she went about her daily tasks, chiding the servants for various failings, the fiend of curiosity ate away at her resolve. Surely Henry would wish her to check the contents in case it boded ill? Several times the missive was removed to be examined, the seal picked at by a fingernail and put back, until she finally succumbed.
Not that she did so in public; she chose Henry’s study and made sure the door was closed, before using a knife to break the wax. It was read with an inbuilt prejudice, Dirley not being a creature of whom she approved given the circumstances of his birth, clearly a stain on the family name. But underneath and never admitted, there was jealousy, for Dirley lived independently and, unlike her, seemed not to be beholden to anyone.
She had only met him once, at Elisabeth’s wedding to Stephen Langridge and, given her reservations about being seen in his company allied to his retiring nature – he had stayed well in the background – they had barely exchanged a proper greeting, which suited her fine. He had been a long-time resident in London prior to her arrival at Cottington and it was some time before she, and her husband, knew anything of his existence.
The thought of that day reddened her cheeks, for the feeling of shame at being such a supplicant had never faded. It was made worse by the way she had always condescended to her pregnant sister Margaret, not least for the feeling she had married beneath herself. In Sarah Lovell’s eyes, it took more than a handsome estate to confer status, which had meant few visits prior to moving in, obliged by circumstances to throw themselves on the generosity of her brother-in-law.
Acton Tulkington had sent his coach to Canterbury to fetch them, for she and her husband, Samuel, were in such straightened circumstances they lacked the means to hire a conveyance large enough to carry them and their possessions to what was supposed to be a temporary stay. This had been occasioned by a series of stupidly unwise projections in which her husband had become involved, ventures that incurred losses that came close to seeing him carried off to the Marshalsea.
How different Samuel Lovell had turned out to be from the man she thought he was on marriage. The air of easy confidence, plus his looks and standing in the business community, had blinded her to his real character. But was that not true of every union? A woman entered into matrimony with no more than an impression of the man with whom she would share her life. If he had felt any shame at their altered circumstances, it had been well hidden.
Samuel set about ingratiating himself with Acton, unable to see what his wife observed in her brother-in-law’s expression − that he was tolerated, no more, which made questionable his assertions confided to her when they were alone that they would soon be back on their feet. He never said how this was to come about, merely fobbing her off with vague allusions to some plan he was hatching, which would bring them the funds to get back both their Canterbury residence and their social standing.
He had been in a strange mood the day he disappeared, a sort of fidgeting impatience, which lasted until the sun was near to going down when, with Acton absent and Margaret resting, he had borrowed a horse and departed Cottington without saying where he was going.
That night she had lain in their marital bed, wondering where he had got to and when he would return and join her. But Sam never came to the bedroom and he was not around in the morning either. Despite enquiries all over the county, both he and the animal he had borrowed had not been seen since.
She forced herself to go back to the letter, in order to kill off these memories, to read that twice-blessed Dirley, a bastard, was calling Elisabeth his niece, which Sarah thought he had no right to claim. She had made her own feelings plain when he had come to Cottington, giving him no more than a frosty greeting and refusing to engage in conversation.
By repute he was clever, though she had never had any dealing with him herself: Dirley dealt with money and property and she had none. So there was a certain degree of amusement to read he had fallen for the notion Elisabeth’s wedding had been brought about by a coup de foudre. That she had fallen so hopelessly in love and all the social norms had been abandoned. No doubt he had been given that information by Henry.
‘Come to London, indeed. I wish they would, so you could see what a low creature Spafford is, spawned out of the same foul muck heap as you.’
Henry meant to take over managing the plantations. Had that been his motive all along? He had been dead set against any sale, something his aunt concurred with, amazed that Elisabeth, whom she had considered sensible until the arrival of Brazier, had fallen for abolitionist claptrap.
It was very obvious Elisabeth should not read this letter; she did not need her nephew to tell her that. But it did require that she formulate a good reason for doing so herself. Before she could conjure up an excuse, the door opened and Elisabeth entered.
‘I wonder if it would be possible to visit Annabel once more?’
‘So soon? I do think Annabel might find it odd that you should call again after only a day.’
The response was bitter. ‘Perhaps if I was to tell her that I am prisoner in my own house, she would make me welcome.’
‘She’s not your only friend, Elisabeth. Perhaps someone else. It’s a while since you visited Stephen’s mother. You do owe that to her as a widow.’
‘Then, as a companion, you’d be more suited to Mrs Langridge than I.’
Elisabeth slammed the door as she left. Given what she had been reflecting upon, Sarah Lovell had no doubt about the meaning of those words; she was very likely a widow too. But what if she was not? There was another recurring and unsettling vision, which usually came to her in the hours of darkness, when sleep was difficult.
Had Samuel Lovell really fallen to some accident never revealed? What if he had deserted her and had found himself another woman? What if there had been a mistress all along?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Inevitably, Harry Spafford had been found in a whorehouse, drunk and with the proprietor refusing to let him leave until his bill was settled. This was something he’d never had to face in Deal, where everyone knew his father was there to provide the necessary. Henry, being of a more refined nature than the wastrel’s parent, was obliged to enter the kind of low establishment he would have avoided like the plague, to then make his way through an assemblage of powdered and rouged trollops, each trying to engage his interest.
‘You cannot have run out of funds already?’ he barked when he finally reached the seat of the problem, a dishevelled youth sat in a chair with a brute of a landlord standing over him. ‘How much does he owe?’
The sum mentioned had Henry look at Spafford for confirmation, only to judge by his vague expression he had no idea if it was accurate or inflated, for if he was not drunk now, he looked as if he was not fully sober, however meek his demeanour. With long experience of such situations, Spafford did abashed very well and, as ever, was ready with an excuse for his disreputable behaviour. With what Henry took to be a cock and bull story, he told of having most of his money stolen, a sideways and surreptitious glance at the owner hinting him as the probable culprit.
Looking into those sapphire blue eyes, pleading to be believed, with a wholly unconvincing verge-of-tears expression on his puffy face, it was possible for Henry to wonder if he had made a mistake in his calculations. That had to be set aside; he needed to get Spafford out of this den of iniquity and back to the Angel, which involved a payment of the tariff, followed by a furious and rapid walk through the streets of Chatham, with Spafford scurrying to keep up, alternating between further excuses and promises of better behaviour in the future.
A Lawless Place Page 17