‘I was raised with it, Captain, as well as the local gales, though I confess my old bones can no longer bear the chill of the winter months. Nor can they withstand the waters for sea bathing, in which I took much pleasure.’
‘I also find it efficacious, Miss Carter. It is my habit to start the day with a swim.’
‘I think you will find it remarked upon, sir, as I and my companions did when using the bathing machine. The natives hereabouts have a morbid fear of water of any kind, except perhaps when it is used to brew beer.’
‘My habit has become so commonplace, people have ceased to stop and stare.’
He had known they were near neighbours, even if the Carter house had been empty when he took on Quebec House: how could he not, with such a distinguished soul? One of the so-called Bluestocking Circle, a loose assemblage of women writers, she was probably the most celebrated person on this coast, equally so in London and Bath, an acquaintance of every luminary of note.
A woman of high ability, she added to that a very superior intellect and, while he was no ignoramus, the notion of even reading, never mind undertaking the translation of the works of the ancient Greeks, was way beyond him. Brazier was determined the conversation would stay within the bounds in which a naval officer could cope. When it came to erudition, he was out of his league.
‘I envy you sailors, sir, for your duty takes you to places I have longed to visit.’
The look of polite enquiry named these as the sights of the classical world, the ruined temples of Greece and Rome, which peppered the shores of the Mediterranean. He was too embarrassed to admit they held little interest for him, to say he was more interested in the future than the past.
‘Ah, here is our guest of honour,’ Miss Carter claimed, just before a voice naming her took her from his side.
William Pitt stood in the doorway looking at those assembled, until a bustling admiral approached to welcome him, which had Brazier wondering at the invitation, though he reckoned he could pin the reason. In previous conversations, he knew Braddock had mixed views of the man, not least for his desire that the navy should interdict smuggling. Added to that he had named his brother, the Earl of Chatham, a civilian, as First Lord of the Admiralty, when naval opinion was adamant it should go to a sailor.
It was all about the state of the public purse, of which a very large slice went on the naval estimates, to build new ships as well as maintain those in service. Pitt was a ferocious cost-cutter, having inherited, on taking office, a huge deficit caused by the cost of the American imbroglio, which had spread from an already costly effort to chastise rebellious colonists to a near ruinous war with France. Chatham was there to seek to put a cap on expenditure.
For all his feelings of exasperation, loudly proclaimed in private, Chatham was now a person of some influence when it came to the allocation of employment. Giving a reception for his younger brother, who was a man of much authority in his own right, might produce for Braddock an elevation away from what he saw as a backwater posting. Watching the two exchange apparent pleasantries took his mind to what such an appointment might encompass. There were plums to be had in abundance and any number of rivals seeking them because of it. His old commander, Admiral Hassall, had held one of them, for there was a fortune to be made on the West Indies stations, even if the country was at peace.
In wartime, such postings were, with an eighth of any prize money going to the commanding officer, worth the price, on return, of a country estate. That was what made Hassall’s actions all the more reprehensible; they had gone beyond greed to unbridled avarice, which occupied Brazier’s thoughts as he circled the room making polite if unengaging conversation.
This he did with a weather eye on Braddock and Pitt, who seemed to have become glued to each other, though it was suspected it was the former latching on to the latter. Nor could he miss the occasional glance in his direction, which made him wonder if he was the subject of their conversation and, if he was, what was the substance.
At the back of his thinking was the notion, arrived at after his meal with Pitt, that he might be required to defend himself from any accusation stemming from the death of Hassall. Not that such should worry him unduly, given his absence from Kingston on the night it occurred. Yet it could be suspected he gave the order for the deed, leaving others to carry it out.
His blistering row with the admiral, where he had openly accused him of perfidy, would not have been contained by the walls of Admiralty House, and even less by the open windows of what was a warm-weather posting. He could conjure up Sir Lowell Hassall clearly in recollection; the long face and the lugubrious expression, a man normally self-contained seeking, by a combination of his inherent authority plus bluff and countering insults, to deflect the accusations Brazier was making against him.
That his inferior had proof of his actions was waved away with accusations of ingratitude. But it had failed to convince, not least because the man, with his inability to meet Brazier’s eye, had reeked of guilt. It was possible to question now if it had been wise to share the information with his contemporaries, all of whom had suffered in their purse. The notion of writing to the Admiralty with a denunciation had faltered, first on the lack of demonstrable proof, but even more so on the certain knowledge that even believed, their Lordships would move to cover up anything which might bring disgrace on the service. It was at that point Brazier said, without naming anything in particular, that another way to stop Hassall would have to be found.
A distraction from these thoughts would have been a relief, if the subject of a conversation he was having with the Reverend Benjamin had been one in which to take comfort. The Vicar of St George’s was no less reassuring on the subject of annulments than the Canterbury lawyer, though he didn’t smoke, as had Moat, that he had a personal interest in a matter being discussed in general terms.
Not being a formal dinner, food came in the form of a buffet – wine had been provided by sailors acting as waiters, a task carried out with a grace that failed to match their tough-looking faces. It was while filling a plate that he found himself next to William Pitt.
‘Perhaps one day we will meet when food is not the cause, Captain Brazier.’
There was guying in that and the man so addressed wasn’t playing. ‘I can think of few other occasions when it would be appropriate, given we are limited in what we have in common.’
‘Not even the public good?’
‘I fear my horizons in that regard do not match your own, sir.’
‘It may be that I have heard otherwise.’
Brazier stabbed a slice of ham so hard it nearly went through to crack the platter. What did the sod mean by that? Was he saying he was in possession of more information than previously suggested? What had that anonymous letter that came home at the same time as his despatch actually said? He’d never been told. Was it merely that the admiral’s death was a cause for suspicion, or he was got rid of for a reason?
‘I cannot think who might have told you such, Mr Pitt. Outside taking on our nation’s enemies, my interests tend to stop at the bulwarks of my ship.’
‘Can a man who cares so much for his crew members that he troubles his purse for their welfare, not have a care for the greater good?’
About to say that was prompted by loyalty, Brazier stopped himself; it would sound pious and boastful. ‘I think you’ll find it commonplace in the service to look after one’s followers.’
‘It was interesting talking to Sir Clifton, he was most illuminating on the ways of the navy. Or was it the needs?’
It was time to shift the focus, which Brazier did with brio. ‘No doubt Admiral Braddock would give that advice to your brother as quickly as he would impart it to you.’
‘Neither of us want for advice.’
‘William, am I to take it you’re avoiding me?’
Pitt was forced to turn away from Brazier to deal with Elizabeth Carter who, despite what seemed to be a stinging rebuke, was smiling. It was telling sh
e could address him by his first name. Given her age, of course, and the circles in which she moved, she might have known him as a child.
‘My dear lady,’ came out smoothly, ‘I sought to dispose of my duties to the other guests, so I would have time left to give you the attention you merit.’
‘Nonsense, but I will not bat away your flattery.’ She looked past him. ‘Behold, Captain Brazier, a fellow with a silken tongue. No wonder he has risen so swiftly at such a young age.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, Miss Carter,’ Brazier said, taking the opportunity to move away.
Pitt was probing, and discomfort came from the lack of knowledge of what information he was working from. Could it be anything other than supposition? He was a clever sod, of course, how could he not be to have become the King’s First Minister, taking over as leader of the Tory faction in the House of Commons aged only twenty-four.
There was an absolute certainty that none of the captains who had met in the cabin of HMS Diomede, on the morning he returned to Kingston, would have said anything likely to endanger him and, even more so, them as a group. If they knew which one of their number had been responsible for the deed – perhaps it was all of them – it had not been vouchsafed to him and nor had Brazier asked.
It could not be reversed and Hassall, since he was unlikely to be brought down legally, deserved a rope from the yardarm. All Brazier could do, once he had seen the doctors and had the nature of his demise confirmed, was get back to sea and bury the cadaver, thus removing from prying eyes anything that might raise further questions. That thought almost produced an ironic laugh. It seemed there was a raft of enquiries, including one he had asked himself many times.
What had Hassall done with his ill-gotten gains? Remitting home the prize money that came his way was simple, but other funds would have required to be kept hidden from prying eyes. There had been no overflowing chest of the type reputedly beloved by pirates, and shipping it home as specie would have been risky.
It was with some determination he put the matter out of his mind to concentrate on being what he was, a guest at a soirée. So he set himself to move around the room, engaging in inconsequential conversations with various locals, male and female, who made up the higher strata of Deal society, while wondering how many of them were acquainted with Henry Tulkington. Evermore to the point, how many of them had an inkling of his true nature?
He was preparing to leave – others like William Pitt and Miss Carter had already departed or were making preparations to do so – when Braddock came bustling over to buttonhole him.
‘Well, Brazier, anything to report?’
‘What could I possibly have to report, sir?’
There was a twinkle in the admiral’s eye as he responded. ‘Saw you talking with Pitt.’
‘As did you, sir.’
‘True, and he was curious to find out from me what I knew about you. Had to confess that was limited to our recent meeting, added to having served under Commodore Johnstone when you were Premier of HMS Hero. Just wondering if he had anything to say to you about me?’
‘Nothing, sir, and had he enquired I would have been obliged to say, like you, how limited was our acquaintance.’
‘Stiff bugger, wouldn’t you say? Not much in the humour line.’
‘I daresay he is burdened with many cares.’
‘Not alone there, Brazier, is he,’ was imparted with a feeling of hurt. ‘Damned politicos don’t know what it’s like to be in charge of a station like the Downs, or any other one for that matter, and a ship just as bad, with the grubby clerks of the Navy Office poring over everything sent in, looking for mistakes.’
‘And hopefully finding none, sir.’
‘Curious, though,’ Braddock said with a pensive look, but no explanation, which forced Brazier to enquire. ‘Wanted to know about the West Indies and your service out there and what sort of fellow Hassall was. What the devil could I tell him?’
‘Curious indeed. Now, sir, if you’ll forgive me. Thank you for today.’
Hat fetched, Brazier made his way back the short distance to Quebec House and was given, on entry, the note delivered by Daisy Trotter. Having read it and about to react in the negative, he stopped himself, feeling the need for the company of someone nowhere near naval. He called upon Dutchy and the others to follow him out.
‘Where to, Capt’n?’ Peddler enquired.
‘The Old Playhouse and a spot of decent wine, which does not encompass what Admiral Braddock was dispensing today.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Dutchy, Peddler and Cocky were in the main part of the Playhouse, able to partake of food and ale, but knowing they must have a care given they were still required to carry out the duty for which they were being rewarded. But the fact that Vincent Flaherty was also in the Old Playhouse did not serve Daisy Trotter well. He was a man fond of his clarets in the company of Brazier, who preferred burgundies, and they had set themselves to sample some of the best of Saoirse Riorden’s cellar.
This led to a quartet of bottles on the table and, given Brazier had spent the afternoon drinking at Braddock’s reception, albeit a distinctly inferior brew, he was past being fully sober when the bells struck eight. With tongues loosened by wine, the two men could easily have fallen to discussing their various problems, like Flaherty being smitten with Saoirse.
Brazier, who previously acknowledged that she was more than worthy of admiration, would not have welcomed the mention of his friend’s problem: he would only have been reminded of his own. By an unstated agreement, both subjects were avoided. But talk they did, which included general ribbing about the different views held by their fellow countrymen about each other.
‘You Irish are seen as feckless, Vincent.’
‘While you Englishman are tyrants to any Celt.’
‘I was about to add that such a denigration of the Irish is lazy. I had a goodly number in my crew and they were generally cheerful and industrious. You need not take my word for it. There are others in the main hall who shared a ship with them, who would attest to the same. And they do love a fight.’
Flaherty raised his goblet. ‘Especially when in drink.’
‘That applies to all peoples. I always favoured giving my men a tot of rum before going into action.’
‘And you?’
‘The man in command must keep a clear head. The time to drink is afterwards, hopefully to toast success.’
There was a discussion about the loss of the American colonies, with Brazier admitting it had been a badly fought war, Flaherty claiming it was one that should not have been fought at all. ‘And I would wish Ireland to be three thousand miles away by water, then we too might be free.’
Sensing a bit of Irish belligerence, Brazier picked up a bottle and refilled Flaherty’s glass for the umpteenth time. ‘Now that is a subject that does not sit well with such fine wine.’
Sat facing the door, Brazier saw Daisy Trotter not so much fill the doorway as slide into it, half-hugging the frame. By his dress and appearance, he knew the Card Room was not for the likes of him. Those in occupation, either playing or merely drinking and conversing, were people of substance, successful men of trade or merchant ship captains come ashore to take their ease.
Half-tempted to go to meet him, Brazier decided to hold his place; Trotter had requested this meeting and there was no intention to ask Saoirse for her parlour once more. Also, his mood was rather salty: not angry, but disinclined to consideration. It took a while before Daisy realised he was not going to be indulged, while it was a measure of his perceived station that he moved like a man more at home in the shadows than strong candlelight.
‘Shall I leave you to it, Edward?’ Flaherty asked, just before Daisy reached their table.
‘Why allow yourself to be troubled? I can’t see there will be much to concern me.’
Daisy’s progress had attracted a certain degree of attention, even from the card players, and none of it was benign. Brazier compounded what he
later saw as deliberate and pointless rudeness, by issuing no invitation to sit. It was Flaherty who moved to give the man space to slide into a chair.
‘What is it I can do for you, Trotter?’ The answer was some time in coming; Daisy was looking around the room, examining faces, his own showing apprehension, which got an exasperated response. ‘You’ve nothing to be concerned about here, man.’
‘That so?’ was the sniffed response. ‘Happen I know who might be a threat when you lack a clue, being a stranger. Just because folk are coated in silk don’t make them honest, an’ I could name one who fits that notion well.’
‘Your business?’
‘In heaven’s name, Edward, offer the man a drink.’
‘Do you take wine, Trotter?’
‘Not by habit.’
Flaherty was on his feet to offer Trotter a drink, as Brazier pointedly emptied his goblet and refilled it, ‘I’ll have some porter sent over, if that serves.’
That acceded to, and the Irishman moving away, Brazier gave the now-seated Trotter a look that demanded he speak.
‘There’s a cargo of contraband coming in this night.’
‘From what I’ve been told, barely a night goes by when that is not the case.’
‘Tulkington’s contraband.’
Without knowing it, Daisy had moved to become equated with William Pitt, and the mood Brazier was in, not good in any case, went down like a falling barometer registering a coming tempest. Another goblet of wine disappeared.
‘How many times do I have to tell people hereabouts, I have no interest in smuggling? Both your kind—’ Brazier stopped himself from naming Pitt but added, ‘and the Revenue can go to the devil.’
Flaherty returned to place a pot of porter in front of Trotter. Then, looking at Brazier’s stony expression, he picked up his goblet and departed again, murmuring an excuse so softy delivered it was missed.
‘There we are. A convivial evening with a friend ruined.’
‘Hawker and his lot have gone to see it safe in.’
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