‘You’ve got to put a stopper on this, Dan.’
‘What the hell are you on about?’
The thought of seeking to explain in this situation seemed impossible, but he had to try. ‘Take my word, it’s the wrong way to go. Doing Tulkington’s bidding will be damaging our own.’
‘But, Daisy—’
‘No fuckin’ buts, Dan. You’se got to trust me.’
The look of utter confusion on Dan Spafford’s face did not provide one ounce of encouragement, as Daisy screamed at him, quite prepared to exaggerate, even to lie.
‘Brazier is more friend to us than enemy. He came close to shooting Tulkington the night we was rumbled. He hates the bastard and will side with us against him.’
‘Tulkington’s goin’ to let us carry on in the trade with no interference, Daisy.’
‘Then ask yourself why he’s paying that as a price.’
‘Dan, what do you want to do, the crowd’s moving on?’ demanded Dolphin Morgan.
That got a confused look, for Dan Spafford had no idea. It was Daisy who spoke, his face a picture of despair as he looked at the now-surging mob. And his voice matched the look.
‘There’s no controlling it now.’
‘We’s got to get to the front and start the torchin’, that’s the arrangement.’
‘No, Dan,’ Daisy insisted, for the first time not needing to shout, given the noise of the throng was receding. ‘We have to get back to Worth and see how we’s to proceed.’
‘Got to say no to that, Daisy, Tulkington’s got my boy.’ Dan’s shout came as he started running, calling on his lads to follow, which left Daisy standing alone, silently cursing Harry Spafford’s hold on his pa.
It took effort to push back to the front of the crowd, but Dan Spafford did not lack for muscle or the odd fist if some sod would not quickly clear a path. The stream of human anger swept past the Three Kings, where Garlick and some of his guests were watching from the open first-floor window, only to come to a halt at the sight of four redcoats and raised muskets.
‘This way.’
Dan Spafford, having resumed the leadership, slipped down a narrow alley, one of the dozens that connected to Middle Street, with everyone following. The noise, which had been loud on Beach Street, hit a level many times that in the confined space between two sets of high buildings and barely diminished when they poured into Middle Street, the confining lack of space turning the whole into a seething liquid mass.
Now they were shouting the name of Brazier, and in there was many a loud curse aimed at Billy Pitt. Those within the houses along the route heard it and, even if it made no sense, they trembled, praying to be spared whatever was about to occur. This applied especially to those who were neighbours to Quebec House who, if they dared look out onto their street, were presented with a sea of heads, flaring torches and bellowing imprecations.
It was talked of in the aftermath. Maybe if the window had not already been smashed, the torch would not have been thrown through it. It was never to be established who the culprit was, while even such an excitable mob was wont to hesitate when it came to the actual carrying out of that which they had been encouraging each other to do. But once one went through, others followed.
The drapes took light quickly, to be followed by the furnishings. The crowd had to ease back as the flames took hold, for fear it might singe them. That retreat went further as the glass burst outwards on the first floor, soon followed by lively streaks of red and orange. Quebec House was now well and truly alight and it was soon remarked that no one had come rushing out of the front door, in order to save themselves.
Murmurs grew and spread; the place had to be empty. The purpose of the night had not been met. The person they had lined up for a sound beating was not there to suffer. That, combined with the enormity of what they were gazing upon, had those to the rear begin to slip away, lest there was a price to be paid for this so-called merriment.
There were bells ringing too as the volunteers who manned the Deal fire engine, paid for and maintained by monies raised by the Tulkington family, responded to the call telling them their services were required. At the same time, word was spreading to those not involved, leading to alarmed and head-shaking denunciations about the endemic stupidity of the lower orders.
The news was relayed to Saoirse, known to many as the owner of Quebec House. She passed it on to Brazier’s table, which would have had them rushing out of the front door and heading for Middle Street if she had not stopped them, with an argument hard to dispute, even as she herself donned a cloak.
‘It has to be you they’re after, not the house.’
‘Tulkington,’ Brazier spat.
‘More likely Hawker,’ came from Dutchy.
‘Stay here,’ Saoirse insisted. ‘You can’t face a mob, even armed, and certainly not in that uniform.’
‘And you can?’
‘Edward, no one has me marked.’
‘She’s right, Capt’n,’ Peddler said, which got a murmur of agreement from Cocky and Joe.
‘I will send for you, as soon as it’s safe to do so.’
Then she was gone, leaving a quartet to wonder at what they would find when they did get sent for, which had Brazier cry, ‘Upton!’
Any restraint evaporated and he was first out the door, his sword hauled out and pointed ahead of him, ready to skewer anyone who got in his way. Behind him, three cutlasses were also shaped for the taking of blood, only Joe Lascelles reduced to bunched fists. They came upon the rear of a multitude breaking up, partly because the man who had led and encouraged them had disappeared and was, unknown to all, heading for the marshes that ran to the north of Deal.
Bellowing got Brazier through, for no one wanted to take on the wild eyes or the blade, while behind him his men were swinging right and left looking for flesh. The flames were now shooting out of the roof, while in front of the house the firemen were furiously working their hand pump to send what looked like a feeble stream of water up the exterior walls.
Having got too close, Brazier had to fall back in the face of the searing heat, only vaguely aware of a line of the more responsible citizens, forming up to pass a line of buckets all the way from the foreshore. Unseen and only revealed later, there was another group at the rear of the properties trying to damp the flames from there. A second engine came trundling into the street from the Navy Yard, manned by sailors, while behind them their mates paid out a rolled canvas hose to suck water from a well. By the time they had that operating, he found himself standing alongside Saoirse.
‘Play on the neighbouring houses,’ Brazier yelled, saying words that he knew might upset her. ‘Try to keep it from spreading to them for the main one is beyond saving.’
‘What folly caused this?’ she said, in a tearful tone.
‘Hatred was the cause, Saoirse, and I am sorry to be the reason for it.’
The crowd, or at least those who had not got away from potential trouble, had retreated to form blocking lines of bodies. Mixed in with them were the residents of this part of the street, very likely some from the buildings the firefighters were now trying to preserve. It took no great wisdom or knowledge of fires to see that Quebec House was truly beyond saving, for what had been a searing conflagration was now morphing into a great plume of smoke.
‘Dutchy, see if you can find Upton anywhere.’
‘Don’t want to leave you unprotected, Capt’n.’
It was in a voice cracked from smoke inhalation that he replied. ‘I doubt those who truly want to do me harm have stayed around. Cowardice will see them long gone.’
He was there all night and able, in the morning, to gingerly enter the ground floor. There were no others, the ones above having crashed down to form a pile of hot wood under a roof open to a sky beginning to lighten. In amongst that, and only found when everything had been drenched in water, they found a body, charred and reduced to the dimensions of a child.
It did no good to say to Edward Brazier he was
not responsible. He knew he was.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
It was a sombre breakfast that was taken in the Old Playhouse, following the discovery of Upton’s remains, for it could be no one else. It did mean that whoever had set light to Quebec House was guilty of murder, not, given the size of the crowd who had been outside at the time, that anyone was likely to be brought to book. The names not mentioned, because they would set everyone’s teeth on edge, were those of Tulkington and Hawker who, it was suspected, had to be the authors of the whole event.
It would not have cheered them to know that Hawker, too, was fuming. The first reason was very obvious: he had failed to get his revenge. But second was the written instruction from Henry Tulkington, delivered by some stable boy, ordering him to travel to Chatham and bring back to Cottington Court Harry Spafford, no explanation as to why being given. If he was unaware of every detail, Hawker was burdened by a feeling his employer had not handled recent matters very well. From being a man in iron control, he seemed to have moved to where he was seeking to cover one error with another, and now they had piled upon each other.
Spafford and his thieving gang should have been disposed of, that being the only way to ensure a finish. If that threatened to raise problems, well, they seemed to have more now. Refusing to have Brazier as a brother-in-law, he could see, but wedding his sister to drunken and whoring Harry Spafford as a solution he could not fathom. Prior to departure, he collared a couple of the street ragamuffins, a pair sound asleep, the others being too numerous and fleet of foot to be caught, and gave them several hard blows round the head, as well as a promise, if they wanted for gin, to find a new chump to provide it.
Next came a bit of a tour of various taverns, seeking to ensure his name was not linked to the fire at Quebec House and in this he was satisfied. The fact of a body being found bothered him, but only in the event it was the wrong one. No one even hinted at him as responsible, but there were plenty willing to tell him who had been outside while the fire raged.
Hawker was tickled, if not surprised, by the general caginess of those he queried, most reluctant to admit they had been party to the riot at all. But the one name that did crop up suggested a notion. Could he put the blame for the whole thing, not least that dead body, on to the head of Dan Spafford? This might, at least, get shot of him, which would serve, for without their leader his gang was useless. But a care surfaced at the same time: the sod knew too much about the Tulkington operations and what he got up to with the Revenue to be threatened with a rope.
Perhaps matters would settle in the time he was away. Brazier and his lot were homeless and his hopes on Tulkington’s sister were dashed, so he might well move away. Spafford, if not at the bottom of the sea, was back to where he had been previously – small-scale smuggling – thus not really a problem. John Hawker was fairly relaxed as he got one of the vans that ran regularly to Sandwich, where he would pick up a coach that would pass through Chatham.
Hawker was not alone in reviewing recent events, though he would have been obliged to admit a real difference in conclusion. Henry Tulkington, who would have denied he was feeling sorry for himself, was yet reflecting that fate had dealt him a very difficult hand, and in a very short space of time. The coincidence of his problem with Brazier, simultaneously compounded with Spafford’s thieving, had obliged him to juggle where he would have preferred to carefully manage. Now he had a feeling his actions to resolve these problems, in which he had lacked both alternatives and room for manoeuvre, were bringing disapproval in too many quarters.
He would have to check his Uncle’s Dirley’s attempts to intrude in Elisabeth’s affairs, which, if it promised to be unpleasant, provided an opportunity for which he had been only vaguely aware he had been waiting. The balance of their relationship needed to be set beyond peradventure. The days of him as the novice were long gone. He was fully his father’s heir, the man in control, and Dirley was there to do his bidding.
His aunt would have to be put back in her dependency box; her behaviour these last few days had been impossible. Worse still, he had been obliged to acquiesce in the acts she had initiated without even a pretence at consultation. Either she would have to conform to his way of doing things, or he would condemn her to the poorhouse.
Then there was his sister, who needed to be forced to accept the present dispensation. He knew her to be wilful, but she must come to realise his resolve was stronger. For too long Elisabeth had thought she could act as she wished, thought she could condescend to him, even make him the butt of her and her companions’ jokes. Having Spafford here as a threat would help to rein her in. And if she refused, well he was her husband.
Was Hawker still as reliable as he had been in the past? Recently he had taken to questioning his instructions, instead of merely obeying them, putting forward opinions of how to resolve matters that were beyond his responsibilities. The man thought he could not sense his frustration; Hawker should surely have realised by now that his employer had a feline’s sense for dissent. It would require to be carefully handled, but Hawker needed to be reminded, quite forcibly, of his place.
Spafford he would keep an eye on and, provided he did not overreach himself, and stayed well away from the Tulkington operations, he presented no real threat. There was a certain degree of advantage in his trying to compete, albeit in a very small way. Better that the Excise had more than one possible target and he constituted one, a sacrifice if it were needed. As for others, like the opportunists of Deal Beach, John Hawker would encourage where it suited and betray them when it was expedient.
A bell was rung to alert Grady that it was time to come and shave him. As he lay back and allowed the razor to go where the man ministering to him felt it necessary, he could reflect that at least, in the department of menial service, in the dismissal of Upton, he had asserted his absolute authority. It was in the nature of servants to get ideas above their station, just as it was a requirement of those who engaged such people to occasionally remind them of their dependence.
Had he been able to see into Grady’s mind, he might not have been so sure of himself.
‘Jesus, I’m not offering you my bed, Edward, but a place to lay your head.’
Slightly shocked at the openness of her allusion, while also being obliged to put aside the stimulating thought of what that might bring, Brazier had the tricky task of being grateful, while determinedly refusing. How could he say that a single night spent here, one in which he’d had no choice being near unable to walk, had very nearly ruptured his relationship with Betsey?
He had been obliged to lie to her to cover for it. The Old Playhouse was not a place she had ever visited, but that did not mean she had no opinion of what went on within its walls, in truth a lot less than the more pious citizens of the area supposed. It was bent more towards entertainment than carnality, for there were no attractive young girls pretending to be hostesses while touting for later custom.
Yet, in its main rooms, it was a place where a visiting sailor might entertain a woman, one who felt herself too cultured for the more raucous venues or a common tavern. That did not mean said tar was not expecting reward for his attentions and disbursements, while it was certain a fair few succeeded. So it was perceived as not much above a whorehouse. For the likes of a man connected to Betsey Langridge, to cross such a threshold was to enter the Devil’s lair. Lord knows what she would think if he took up residence!
‘I have to see to my men as well, Saoirse, and I still need them with me at all times. So I will ask Admiral Braddock for temporary accommodation, until I can find another house to rent.’
‘You’ll struggle there, Edward. Anyone letting to you will reckon their property soon to be torched. You might say you and Pitt being hand in glove is nonsense. There are eejits here about who are convinced it’s a fact.’
‘He did try to engage me on the very purpose they suspect.’ That got a reaction − wide-open eyes and clear shock. ‘I refused.’
‘And h
ow in the name of Old Nick were you supposed to go about that?’
‘Pitt got from Garlick—’
‘Loose mouth that he is,’ she said, butting in.
‘—that I was involved with the Tulkingtons.’
‘So he suspects them?’
‘The very opposite, Saoirse. He was at pains to tell me how honest and diligent Henry Tulkington is as his damned tax gatherer. Every penny raised paid in and never a query on his accounts.’
‘So how were you supposed to help?’
‘The connection to Betsey would have put me in the top social layers in this part of Kent. Pitt is convinced smuggling’s being done on an industrial scale …’
‘He’s not wrong there.’
‘… and it’s being run by someone of deep pockets and real brains. It is not being carried out on such a level by those whose boats he torched. He suspects one man or a cabal of wealthy individuals are financing and overseeing the trade, well connected to the local magistrates who might, themselves, be deeply involved. He wanted me to spy on Betsey’s friends, to see if I could turn up anything useful.’
‘But now you know, so why not tell him?’
‘I rate you clever enough to work that out yourself.’
If she thought on it not much time went by and what she said in response came out in a way to make him curious, it being half-amused, but also longing. ‘Sure, a smitten heart overcomes so much.’
‘Now, I must go to see Braddock. And then, me and mine must trawl what emporiums there are in Deal, for clothing and everything else. All we possessed went up in those flames.’
‘Best watch out for Hawker.’
‘Wrong, Saoirse,’ Brazier replied, with some vehemence, as he picked up his sword. ‘He best watch out for me.’
A Lawless Place Page 27