The Royal Naval Hospital was built on a terrace abutting the bank of the river, an enormous quadrant with four pretty palaces, one in each corner. I strolled the grounds in the company of Jeremiah Robertson, the Physician-in-Charge, who presumed I was here on official War Office business. I made no effort to correct this misconception on his part, and indeed it is possible that I had been responsible for placing it there in the first place. Such crosses my conscience would have to bear.
‘Certainly there was a dinner that night,’ Robertson said. ‘It followed the afternoon’s lecture. I presented a paper on the use of Peruvian bark to treat tropical fevers.’ He was a small, wiry gentleman with a high domed forehead, a beaky nose and darting black eyes. I could imagine him counting coins into coffered chests by the light of a candle, or spinning some unfortunate maiden’s hair into gold.
‘There were about forty-five of us in attendance. Mostly members of the Company of Surgeons, though a few physicians with an interest in naval medicine usually join us. Several papers were presented, and as always there was a demonstration. That afternoon it was the ardor urinae. Mr Greaves showed us how to insert a catheter – a silver tube pushed into the penis to aid urination.’
I winced. We were walking down a wide avenue that stretched between the two riverfront wings of the Hospital. The avenue led to the great park, the dome of the Royal Observatory peeking above the treetops.
‘Do you remember if a Deptford surgeon named James Brabazon was present?’
‘Oh yes, Mr Brabazon was there. He comes to many of our lectures and dinners.’
‘Can you remember what time he left?’
‘I believe he had to go back to Deptford to treat a patient after the lecture, but he returned later for the dinner. He stayed almost until the end. Left around one, I believe.’
‘You are certain?’
‘Not to the precise time, but there was an incident involving Brabazon towards the end of the night. That’s why I remember.’
‘An incident?’
He hesitated. ‘Do you mind if I ask what all these questions are about? I don’t like to gossip.’
My tone was severe. ‘Mr Brabazon lives in close proximity to the Navy Yard, sir. The allegiance of a Scot to the English crown can never be taken for granted.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Robertson said. ‘You will find no greater patriot than I, sir.’
‘Then tell me about this incident, if you will.’
He frowned. ‘It was rather an odd matter. One of the visiting physicians that night was a fellow countryman of Brabazon’s, a Glasgow man. He seemed to recognize Brabazon, only he didn’t call him by that name, he called him Price.’
Whatever suspicions I had been harbouring about Brabazon, this wasn’t one of them. ‘What did Brabazon do?’
‘He went very pale, and told the physician he had made a mistake. As a gentleman, the physician accepted the explanation, though he did not look convinced. Afterwards I heard him say: “I could have sworn that gentleman was Richard Price.” Brabazon didn’t stay long after that.’
‘What did you make of it all?’
‘I presumed he’d changed his name when he moved south. He wouldn’t be the first gentleman to have done so. He might have had a rupture with his family, and not wished to be reminded of his past. There are many innocent explanations.’
And many not so innocent. I estimated that even if Brabazon had left at one, it would still just about have been possible for him to have returned to Deptford, then waylaid, tortured and murdered Tad. Just about.
We returned to Robertson’s office, where I took down the name of the Glasgow physician, a Dr Calum Blair.
‘I don’t envy you staying in Deptford,’ Robertson said. ‘I had lunch with the Commissioner of the Navy Yard the other day. How he stands it, I don’t know. Our dealings with the town here in Greenwich are fair for the most part, but in Deptford they learn villainy in the cradle. The authorities are no use either. The magistrate used to be a carpenter, they say.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Do you think he fashioned his own bench?’
‘I understand he and the Commissioner have had their share of disagreement?’ Brabazon had told me as much when we’d dined together.
‘Every week something goes missing from the Navy Yard. Carts, horses, gunpowder. It’s plainly thieves from the town, but the magistrate doesn’t do a thing about it. The Commissioner complained to the Lord Chancellor and tried to have Mr Child removed from his post, but the mayor got the West India lobby involved, and who wants to cross them? Only a fool.’
‘Who indeed?’ I said, with a heavy heart.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
I asked around near the parish church for the Artichoke Tavern, the place where Jamaica Mary claimed to have seen Brabazon arguing with Tad. The directions I was given took me to that part of Greenwich which forms the armpit between the Thames and Deptford Creek. This was the rougher end of town, though unlike in Deptford, I did not fear for my safety here. Yet there were similarities. Taverns, brothels, gaming houses. Sailors and their whores. Drunks.
The Artichoke was a large timbered tavern built around a squalid yard. I waited while the landlord finished serving a pair of customers, and then inquired about his upstairs rooms, giving him descriptions of both Tad and Brabazon.
The man had a thin sharp face, and a sparse growth of beard. ‘Aye, I remember them.’
‘Which one of them rented the room?’ I slid two shillings across his bar.
‘My memory’s a mite hazy to be honest.’ He stared pointedly at the coins, until I added a third. ‘Ah, I recall it now. It was the short skinny one who rented the room. The big one asked for him at the bar. I sent him upstairs.’
‘I heard they argued. Did you hear anything like that?’
‘It gets busy at lunchtime. I wouldn’t have heard nothing unless they was screaming bloody murder. I do recall one thing, though—’ He stopped. ‘No, it’s gone again.’
Wearily, I added a fourth coin to the pile on the bar. The man grinned and put on another show of recollection.
‘The first time they was here, the tall one looked upset as they was leaving.’
‘They came here twice?’
‘That’s right. The first time would have been about five weeks ago.’
Which would have coincided with Tad’s second visit to Deptford. I wondered why he’d chosen to meet Brabazon here. Presumably so they wouldn’t be seen together. I gave much more credence now to the claim that it was Brabazon, rather than Daniel Waterman, who was Tad’s informant. The first time they’d met, Tad could have given him instructions to steal the contracts. The second meeting, the day before Tad died, was presumably when Brabazon handed them over. Which meant they must still be in Deptford.
Why would Brabazon help Tad? Not for the money. Brabazon’s unhappiness suggested he was coerced. I wondered if Tad’s hold on him had something to do with Brabazon’s past. I sat in the tavern and wrote a long letter to Dr Calum Blair, care of the Faculty of Physicians and Surgeons in Glasgow.
*
I walked back into Greenwich, deep in thought. So deep in thought, I was almost run over by a passing brewer’s dray. The driver had been going much too fast, though that did not preclude a barrage of expletives from his lips.
Had it not been for this distraction, which restored my attention to the world around me, I might have missed it. I stopped and stared, ignoring the driver’s volley of curses. A tall, muscular man was walking on the opposite side of the road. He wore a dove-grey coat and gloves, his hat pulled low over his face. From a distance, you might not have realized he was black.
Scipio. Not so surprising, except that before we’d parted company last night, he’d told me that Stokes’s business was taking him to London today. He’d said he would be leaving at six this morning and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. We’d made plans to reconvene tomorrow afternoon. His arrangements could have changed, and yet something about the way he was walking, his swift str
ide, his lowered head, suggested that he did not want to be observed. Intrigued, I decided to follow him.
He crossed the road by the church, heading towards the Navy Hospital. I walked about twenty paces behind him. We came to a small parade of shops, and he ducked into a coffeehouse. The establishment was small, and I couldn’t follow him inside without being seen.
I loitered outside, watching through the window. Scipio greeted someone and sat down, another gentleman. I couldn’t make out the man’s face in the gloomy interior. They spoke for perhaps five minutes, and then Scipio rose and left. I drew back behind the stall of a man selling writing ink. Scipio walked off in the direction of the river, and I was caught on the horns of a dilemma. To follow, or to wait and see whom he’d been meeting? I opted for the latter course.
The gentleman finished his coffee, and then he too left. He crossed the road to a large black carriage waiting there. I watched it drive off, heading for the toll bridge and the road to London, my mind a roiling stew of doubt and confusion. Try as I might, I could conceive of no benign reason why Scipio should be meeting so covertly with my patron, Under-Secretary Cavill-Lawrence.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Scipio and Nicholas Cavill-Lawrence. I pondered it that night as I sat in the taproom of the coaching inn at Deptford Broadway. Was Scipio, to use a phrase employed by the thief-takers, ‘double-crossing’ his master with Cavill-Lawrence? I had always suspected that Cavill-Lawrence had an agenda distinct to the West India lobby’s. Or was Scipio ‘double-crossing’ me, encouraging me to enmesh myself deeper in this business, then reporting my activities back to Cavill-Lawrence? I couldn’t see why he would, but I resolved to share no more confidences with him.
I waited in the taproom until midnight. Then I went to the stables, where I collected Zephyrus and the spirited bay mare I had hired for Cinnamon to ride. I led the horses through the darkened streets of Deptford Broadway, past the church, and up the wooded lane that led to Stokes’s villa.
The mare kept whinnying and tossing her head. I soothed her, my nerves taut, my body tense. At Stokes’s gate, the porter’s lodge was in darkness. Leading the horses into the trees, I tethered them there. I took out my pocketwatch. It was nearly half past twelve, the time Cinnamon had said she would meet me.
I waited, increasingly anxious, as the minutes slid by. To steel my resolve, I kept reminding myself why I was doing this. Cinnamon’s testimony was surely significant – and once I unlocked the chains of secrecy that encircled The Dark Angel, there would be few places left where Tad’s murderer could hide. It was also the right thing to do. I had seen how Stokes mistreated her. What virtue in principles if a man didn’t act on them too?
Little moonlight penetrated the trees, and I started every time I heard a rustle in the undergrowth. The air was rich with vegetal scents, the horses’ breath coming in steaming clouds. It was nearly one o’clock. Where was she? Had she been caught? I kept expecting to hear shouts, to see lanterns coming at me through the trees.
I crept back through the woods, until I had a good view of the gate. All was quiet. I fretted about what to do. Continue to wait, though Stokes might be home at any minute, or go back to the Strand alone and abandon Cinnamon to her fate?
I was still pondering this question when I glimpsed a flash of white in the darkness. Cinnamon, in her ivory gown, running down the drive. We stared at one another across the road, through the bars of the gate. I had been wondering how she intended to get out of the villa grounds with their high walls. Now I saw she meant to climb the gate. The ironwork was wrought into elaborate curlicues and flourishes. There were many points of purchase for her feet. Still I marvelled that she was able to do it. Desperation could make athletes of the weakest men – it seemed women too.
She neared the top of the gates, easing one leg over. Then froze as the door to the porter’s lodge flew open. The elderly African shuffled out, humming to himself. He hobbled to the verge, where he urinated noisily. I started forward, but she gestured me back. When the porter turned, he would surely see her. He took a long time to finish, and then hobbled back, fumbling with his breeches, plainly in his cups. The task occupied his attention all the way back to the lodge. The door closed.
Cinnamon descended the gate swiftly, jumping the last few feet. She ran across the road to meet me and I led her through the trees. It was less than an hour’s ride to London, but a lot depended on how well Cinnamon rode. If Stokes realized she was gone when he got home, he might send men after us. There were other dangers too: a lame horse, or thieves on the road. I breathed to still the beating of my heart.
We were nearing the place where I’d left the horses. I could only see Zephyrus, and I looked around for the bay mare. Cinnamon cried out, and my hand flew to my pistol. Scipio was standing amidst the trees, holding the bay by the reins.
‘Judas,’ he said. ‘You made me a promise.’ He let go of the horse, and grabbed Cinnamon by the arm. ‘I told myself that my suspicions were unfounded, even as I knew that they were not.’
‘Please,’ Cinnamon said to him. ‘I cannot endure it any longer. Let me go.’
Scipio’s voice was cold. ‘You care nothing for those you’d leave behind? The consequences I’d endure?’
‘If you lose your place, I give you my word that I’ll help you find a post in London,’ I said. ‘You of all people cannot reproach her for wanting her freedom. All you need do is turn a blind eye.’
‘You don’t understand.’ A new wildness had entered his voice. ‘Everything I have is here in Deptford. I will not let you take it from me.’
We didn’t have time to argue. I drew my pistol. ‘In all good conscience, I cannot let you do this.’
‘In all good conscience? I suppose your motive for helping her has nothing to do with The Dark Angel? Has she told you what she knows yet? It will be a short conversation.’
‘No,’ she cried. ‘Scipio, please don’t.’
‘What do you imagine she knows?’ Scipio went on. ‘Evidence of the insurance fraud? Do you really think the crew would have had such discussions in front of the slaves? She saw slaves being drowned, as she told you, but she saw and heard nothing else. Stokes has already questioned her. I have too. Do you think they would let her stay here in Deptford if she could harm them?’
I could see from Cinnamon’s face that it was true.
‘She told Archer she knew nothing, and he abandoned her. You would be best to do so too. If you let us go now, I can get her back to the house before anyone realizes she is missing.’ He started dragging her towards the road, though she fought him all the way.
I hesitated. Helping Cinnamon wouldn’t aid my cause, and would bring further troubles down upon my head – my part in her escape couldn’t be concealed now Scipio knew. She had also lied to me – I presumed because she feared that, like Tad, I wouldn’t help her. Except Tad would have helped her, I knew he would. He only got distracted, and then never had the chance. I couldn’t abandon her now, just to serve myself.
I caught up with them on the road. Cinnamon was still pleading with Scipio, but his expression was resolute.
‘I will take her to London anyway,’ I called after them. ‘Let her have this chance.’
He kept moving. ‘Then you’ll have to shoot me.’
‘How can you do this?’ Cinnamon cried to Scipio, as we reached the road. ‘After everything you told me?’
The door to the lodge flew open again, and the porter emerged, holding a musket. ‘What’s happening? Mr Scipio? What’s the girl doing here?’
Cinnamon moaned, a low guttural sound.
Scipio’s voice was authoritative. ‘I am escorting her back to the house. You saw nothing, understand? Open these gates.’
Even before he’d finished his sentence, we heard the clatter of an approaching carriage. The porter started forward with his keys, but it was too late. Lamplight swept the road, and then Stokes’s turquoise-and-silver carriage rattled around the bend. The coachman gave a shout, a
nd pulled on the reins. The vehicle halted, and the door opened. Lucius Stokes stepped out. Abraham and the other black footman jumped down from the back of the carriage to flank him.
The mayor’s gaze travelled over our group. ‘What have we here?’
Scipio stepped forward. ‘I was returning from the city, when I heard a noise in the woods. Captain Corsham had Miss Cinnamon up against a tree.’
I saw what he was doing. The punishment for a tryst in the woods would surely be less than that for escape.
Stokes eyed me. ‘Did he now?’
‘The girl was willing enough,’ I said. ‘I promised her a half-guinea.’
‘I don’t care if she was willing. She is my property.’ Stokes glanced at the girl. ‘He is handsome, I’ll give you that. What would you buy with a half-guinea, I wonder? Don’t I give you everything you need?’
Cinnamon’s face was deathly pale. ‘Yes, sir.’
Off in the trees, the bay mare whinnied. I held my breath, hoping that Zephyrus wouldn’t join in. If Stokes discovered there were two horses, then Scipio’s story would not hold water.
‘Abraham, take her inside. Search her thoroughly. I’ll be in to deal with her in a moment.’
The porter had unlocked the gate, and Abraham pulled her, unresisting, up the drive towards the house. Anger surged in my breast. We’d be on our way to London by now if Scipio hadn’t stopped us. Our eyes met, and his gaze mirrored mine. He blamed me for this, just as I blamed him.
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