A Lawless Place

by David Donachie

  ‘My God, you need to be tamed.’

  ‘I need to be free, Brother, and that I will have.’

  She slipped by him and took the first riser, glad her back was to Henry when he said, in a voice of studied calm, ‘Not with the help of Upton, you won’t. That I can assure you.’

  It was necessary to turn and look confused, difficult with a heart racing from disappointment. ‘Upton. What about him?’

  It was Henry’s turn to produce forced laughter, very obviously, given there was no humour in it at all. But as he made for his study, he was meditating on the aforementioned taming to a conclusion that there was one way it might be achieved.

  Not normally a man to be troubled by gossip, Daisy Trotter could scarce avoid taking an interest in what was being whispered and, in some cases, openly espoused about dealing with Brazier. For some, there was only one way to deal with spies, and even excisemen too keen on their task. It had been sorted before and it could be again.

  Everyone in Deal knew this referred to the burying of a Revenue officer, one who had been so bold as to take up residence in one of the alleys leading to Middle Street, this so he could keep an eye out for the running of contraband. He had been assiduous in his application too, calling in his mates from Dover to raid houses and search cellars and attics and knock for concealed spaces; in both he had enjoyed too much success.

  The way the authorities dealt with goods found in cellars, the favourite hiding place, was to fill them with beach shingle, so they could never be used again. The method by which the community reacted, and it was few who ever did so, was to visit the same fate of the overactive sod – no one was going to finger them.

  When he disappeared, there was a frantic search to find him, run by Revenue men from all over the county. Someone must have passed over a whisper, for suddenly every shingle-filled cellar in Deal was being emptied. They found him in one, located in a street running from Beach Street to Middle Street. This housed the most prosperous farrier in Deal and was generally named after that enterprise.

  He had been interred under tons of pebbles and with not a mark on him to say how he expired, before or after. The horror soon spread that he had been buried alive as a message to the Revenue to stay out of the town. Should he care? Daisy didn’t know; certainly he could see a reason not to, given the way he had been treated in the card room of the Old Playhouse. Yet it kept nagging him; when it came to taking on Tulkington and possibly getting Dan free, he was bereft of help. Brazier did not represent much of a chance to gain any, but there was none other possible.

  This left him dithering for near the whole of the day, at one moment determining to issue a proper warning, at others, with the sneering face of Brazier recalled, a determination to leave the bugger and the tars protecting him, too few in number to take on a Deal mob fired up with drink, to stew in their own juice. All he could do was keep an eye on the slaughterhouse and hope something would turn up.

  Saoirse Riorden had a feeling something was looming: she had well-honed feelers for any trouble brewing in the town, a necessity given her location on the Lower Valley Road. If there were a riot − and if such things were infrequent, they were not unknown − she knew her business lay on the main thoroughfare for protest. She needed to be sure that, as any mayhem went by, none of it got onto her premises. Being the tax gatherer’s time to visit, she sought to quiz John Hawker.

  ‘You sniffing sommat that’s eluded me, Miss Riorden. And not much gets by John Hawker.’

  ‘I would appreciate a warning if there is.’

  ‘Do no harm,’ he lied. ‘If I pick up owt on my travels, I’ll send a message.’

  ‘Good of you,’ Saoirse replied.

  She was wondering why he was being so accommodating, a feeling that persisted after he had departed. That was not the Hawker way, which did nothing to quieten her concerns. Had he been open, Hawker would have told her she was too friendly with certain people to be trusted with what was coming, not least Vincent Flaherty and, in some way, Brazier himself. And who was the true owner of the place about to be attacked?

  It was no secret she was his landlady, nor when he had been subjected to a beating, where he had been looked after. The doctor who bandaged him was not discreet and neither did he hold back on where the treatment he had administered was given. There was more than a hint that Saoirse Riorden, noted for her immunity to male attentions, might have taken more than a shine to him.

  She, too, had errands to run connected with her business: food to order, a mass of materials to pay for, already delivered, which allowed her to drop hints with the various purveyors of services. But she was either talking to the wrong people, or those who had a sniff but were too unsure to let on.

  In blissful ignorance of that which was brewing, Edward Brazier was being entertained by his near neighbour, Miss Elizabeth Carter, not on his own, it had to be said. Yet he was well aware of being in the company of a group of some dozen people whose erudition vastly outstripped his own. It was for once a relief that they showed a degree of interest in his career and how he had come about his rank.

  ‘For Admiral Braddock vouchsafed to me, Captain Brazier, it did not come from the possession of interest.’

  There had to be one or two of the assembly who were singularly lacking that in its true form. But they would not dare to check the famous bluestocking, for Elizabeth Carter was a person to hold her own in any gathering; in her own house she reigned supreme.

  ‘I am told it is the bane of the service, sir: the promotion to post rank of the undeserving, for the mere quality of their connections. Do you agree?’

  ‘I would rate it imperfect, Miss Carter, yet I have met good officers who have come up in that fashion, as well as those who, as the expression goes, came to the navy through the hawsehole. We have competent admirals who started out as ship’s boys.’

  ‘I have never heard the words competent and admiral in the same sentence,’ she replied, with an arch expression and a bit of furious fan waving, which denoted it as a sally. It turned to a smile when laughter ensued, along with calls of, ‘Very droll, very droll indeed, Lizzie.’

  Brazier was obliged to give a brief outline of his career, how he had come to the navy through his father’s service as a ship’s surgeon, added to the good offices of a serving captain who esteemed him. There were years of very little happening, several sojourns ashore on half-pay too.

  ‘And there was, it has to be said, very little in the way of action until I sailed to the Cape of Good Hope under Commodore Johnstone.’

  ‘Braddock was with you, he told me.’

  ‘He was captain of one of the seventy-fours.’

  Brazier went on to describe the part-failure at the Cape, redeemed by the destruction of a dozen Dutch merchantmen, then the success at Ceylon, which saw him get his step.

  ‘And then the West Indies, Captain?’

  ‘Dull service, Miss Carter,’ was his quick response. It was a place to which he did not want to go. ‘Repetitive in the extreme.’

  There was a glint in her eye, which told Brazier she knew more than she was saying, which made him wonder if Braddock had been subjected to some untoward gossip through the naval grapevine. Then, of course, she had just come down from London, and moved in elevated circles when there. Who knew who was saying what? It was with gratitude he heard her address another guest to enquire on a new translation of Ovid, a subject on which he could happily stay silent.

  The noise of children at Cottington Court was so unusual it brought almost all the servants out to have a look at an apparition only the oldest of them could recall. And in the Colpoys trio, they had noisemakers of quite exceptional ability, able to render their presence known within seconds of them alighting from the coach. Even within his study at the rear of the house, Henry picked up a bit of their squealing and was obliged to come out to investigate.

  ‘What is going on?’

  This was addressed to his aunt, standing at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Visit
ors for Elisabeth, Henry. And, before you enquire, it was at my invitation.’

  The look past him could only mean his sister was coming down the stairs and, with Grady standing within easy hearing distance, it was no place for remonstrating, though it could not just be allowed to pass.

  ‘I would have been obliged if I had been asked.’

  ‘Why trouble you, nephew?’ Sarah Lovell replied, with the tiniest over-the-shoulder flick of the eyes. ‘You are so busy. Anyway, it’s Annabel Colpoys, Elisabeth’s best friend and her children. We thought to take them down to the lake and perhaps they could even fish.’

  Henry spun enough to glare at Betsey, for if he felt he had enough cause already to hate her, to that was added even more as he recalled that location and the number of times he had been used there, when home from school, as a verbal punchbag for their childish games.

  ‘Make sure none of them drown,’ was said in such a fashion that the sentiment was questionable.

  ‘Grady, our outdoor clothing if you please. And could you ask Cook to make some of her delicious shortbread for the Colpoys children? I’m sure they will devour it. They can eat in the kitchen. We adults will take tea in the drawing room at four of the clock. Please send someone to fetch us at the appropriate time.’

  If Henry did not hear it all, what he did pick up was enough to cause a slammed door, which produced from his aunt a smile and a remark.

  ‘Must be the wind.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Had there ever been such a fractured conversation? Betsey wondered if it was actually possible to make full sense of any message delivered or information exchanged, one or two words at a time. Yet that was the purpose, while throughout she had to formulate a reply and articulate the difficulties that must be faced. She was made aware Edward had visited Annabel, though little of what they might have talked about could be properly imparted. It was as much by look as speech that her good friend let her know she was aware of her true situation.

  After the loss of Upton and that plan being destroyed, Betsey knew she was under observation wherever she went, even within the grounds of Cottington. Annabel must have seen the way the coachmen were armed, for when that was whispered over carrot-coloured hair and a fishing rod, there was no shocked reaction.

  It was necessary to keep a constant watch on Sarah Lovell who, if she could help it, was never far away from Betsey. The only method of detachment was provided by the children, with their natural needs and ability to get into situations requiring adult intervention, which included the two boys fighting. With no experience of such creatures, she was too slow to react. Betsey was no better served in that regard, but youth allowed for swift movement.

  Edmund, the eldest boy, was bossy, indeed cocky, and sure he could look after himself. Roger Junior wanted so much to be older and sought to do as well, if not better than his brother, in all the activities: tree climbing, stone skimming and rod casting. Both were miniature versions of their father, while Hermione, the youngest, was a sweet child who took after her mother and was quite content making daisy chains or knotting long pieces of grass.

  The conclusion to, ‘Tell him to find a way,’ had to wait until Roger got stuck up a tree, with, thankfully, Aunt Sarah too afraid to help in getting him down in case he dropped upon her.

  ‘He needs a sign,’ Annabel hissed.

  ‘Not possible,’ Betsey gasped, as heavy-boned Roger landed in her arms.

  When the servant arrived to say tea would soon be served, the pair had done better than they knew. Obliged on the way back to stop communicating in anything other than banalities, both could assess what had been established. Since no fixed arrangement could be made with Edward, Betsey would have to be ready to decamp at a moment’s notice and with nothing in the way of possessions. If it was fraught with the potential to go wrong that just had to be accepted; desperate times required desperate actions.

  Vital to Betsey was his obvious willingness to make whatever effort it took to get her free. Against that she was frustrated, as she had been at Home Farm, at not being able to talk properly to Annabel, to tell her about the hell she was going through, Henry’s behaviour and, most of all, how close she had come to getting away.

  And here, as they walked, was her Aunt Sarah, burbling on about days spent in the Blean Woods around Canterbury, picking wild flowers and sometimes, in the right season, mushrooms. In her story, every day was sunny, all the people accompanying her and her dear Samuel clever and amusing.

  ‘What an idyll, my dears, I cannot tell you,’ she trilled, this while Betsey stopped herself from pointing out she had been doing nothing else for a good twenty minutes. ‘I shall ask Henry to join us for tea.’

  ‘Aunt Sarah—’

  That stopped the trilling and reminiscing. Sarah Lovell went right back to the way she had been in Jamaica and since, looking censorious. ‘I have had recent disagreements with your brother, my dear, but on one thing I cannot gainsay him. Nothing will be achieved if you don’t talk to each other!’

  Annabel aimed a swift eye movement in her direction, making it plain there was a flaw in this logic. Sarah Lovell responded in a low voice so as not to be overheard, which was unnecessary given Edmund was being roundly chastised for punching young Roger so hard he had started to cry.

  ‘Annabel being present will prevent the raising of anything intimate, or likely to bring on dispute. But it will also serve to provide the kind of gentle conversation during which, you might find, it is not impossible to communicate. He will need to be as polite and constrained as you.’

  The problem came in Henry’s downright refusal to comply with the request, which obliged his aunt to explain to her guest that his affairs were so complex he was mired in paperwork. The expression on Annabel’s face was unobserved, but it told Betsey her friend thought Henry was mired in something, and paper was not it.

  The children, full of fresh milk and covered in crumbs from shortbread, were obliged to say how much they had enjoyed themselves and Betsey reckoned it was part truth – no adults would have been better – but it was enough to have her aunt say they must come again, which was a positive.

  She was more guarded and tactical when asked about the day, saying, instead of outright repudiation, that she found the children exhausting. Aunt Sarah, who’d had little real contact with them, pronounced herself enchanted with their vital spirit. The result was achieved; it would not have done for Betsey to have shown any enthusiasm of a kind that might cause suspicion as to her motives.

  She could retire to her room and work out a way to get either a message or a signal to Edward, saying to come and get her as soon as he thought the situation propitious. And then she was afforded time to reflect on the way much of the day’s activities had seemed so normal, in contrast to the reality.

  Annabel had been wonderful, never once putting a foot wrong. The danger lay in what she knew but must never allude to, even obliquely, and that had been carried off with aplomb. In addition, Betsey decided, for all she had harboured previous reservation about children, and the Colpoys’ brood in particular, it was possibly a thing to hanker after in an imagined and happy future.

  ‘Someone to see you, your honour,’ said Joe Lascelles, as Brazier came through the front door, his hat taken.

  ‘Again? I seem to be becoming popular.’

  ‘Easy error to make,’ Joe sniffed, before grinning and indicating the drawing room.

  The man within, not one in his first youth, who shot to his feet on entry was no more comfortable in these surroundings than Daisy Trotter had been in the card room. That was a recollection that reminded Brazier he had behaved badly and unnecessarily so. With that thought in mind, it was a moment before he enquired as to the nature of the fellow’s business.

  ‘I was sent here by Miss Elisabeth, sir.’

  His heart was very suddenly in his mouth. ‘Mrs Langridge, you mean?’

  ‘If she can still be styled that, after recent happenings.’

  ‘S
he has sent you with a message?’

  ‘Not quite, sir.’

  The fellow was clearly nervous, and being towered over by a saturnine and hard-faced naval officer who looked set to board an enemy deck was not going to help. ‘Please sit down again, as will I. And I have yet to enquire your name.’

  ‘Upton, sir, head groom at Cottington Court, ’til yesterday.’

  ‘What happened yesterday?’

  ‘Mr Tulkington showed me the gate.’

  ‘I sense you have a tale to tell me. Have you been offered refreshment?’

  ‘Your servant was kind enough to do so, but …’

  ‘Then allow me to get you something. Beer and a sandwich, perhaps.’

  Joe was ordered to fetch a tankard from the nearby King’s Head tavern, while Cocky was tasked to knock up some bread and cheese, as Brazier extracted from Upton the tale he wanted to tell in the time he wanted to tell it, which began with his service to Mr Henry’s father as a stable lad. There was surely something he would come to, words Brazier was eager to hear, but this Upton would not be pushed. He wanted to be understood and it was possible to be thankful for naval service and command, for that had given Brazier much experience in dealing with such men. Not all tars were of the garrulous type and Upton was certainly slow to relate his story, not aided by simultaneously eating and drinking.

  ‘Worked my way up over the years,’ he munched, ‘only to be shown the gate like some kind of beggar.’

  ‘The reason?’ was asked with some suppressed exasperation.

  ‘Sought to aid Miss Elisabeth … call her that, sir, cause I’ve known her since she was born, an’ I have to say she was a delight as a growing girl, for she loved a horse, as I do. Have to take to the animals, given the position. If you find them awkward, it will never serve.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Not like Mr Henry, not horses for him or dogs. I am takin’ it you know sommat of her situation?’