Her face flickered; a trace of amusement?
‘Mrs Grimshaw saw you at the Noah’s Ark the day an obeah doll was nailed to the stable door. Was it you who put it there?’
Her smile was similar to the one Cinnamon had given when I’d asked her about the obeah: suggestive, a little sly. ‘No, sir.’
‘Do you know who is behind it?’ I persisted.
I suspected she did. I believed Deptford’s Africans knew full well who was behind it. Perhaps they all were. Whatever the truth, Mary wasn’t saying.
She turned again to look out at the river. The moon was reflected in the water, a drop of wax in a puddle of ink. ‘They’ll probably pull Mary out of here one day. They say drowning doesn’t hurt.’
I thought of Amelia, the slaves on The Dark Angel. ‘They’re lying.’
‘Ah well, Mary will probably go in dead anyway. It might have been tonight, if you hadn’t come along.’ She held her hand up to the moon, and closed her fingers around it, making a fist. ‘Then it would all be over. The blink of an eye.’
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Rowing proved torturous work. I pulled against the tide, my tormented body protesting each heave. I’d taken another draught of Brabazon’s tincture before I’d set off, though he’d explicitly warned me against it. Fog drifted along the surface of the water. The ships creaked, over the splash of my oars.
Guineamen loomed over me, a school of Jonah’s whales. I picked out their names with the bull lantern I’d bought earlier. The George, The Black Prince, The Phoenix. Their stench was ripe. All the flavours of death: vomit and corruption, blood and disease, excrement, piss and human suffering.
I forced my muscles to work harder to counter the swell. The sternpost hurt my back, where I braced myself against it. She was above me now, a deeper black against the night sky. A siren, or a fury, heralding death. I put out my hand and touched the rough grain of her timbers.
I’d bought a rope and grappling hook, but I saw with relief I wouldn’t need them. A rope ladder dangled from the ship’s northern side. Several small boats and barges were secured to the anchor chain, and I tied mine up alongside them.
Climbing the ladder wasn’t easy. My sword proved too cumbersome, so I unbuckled it and left it in the boat. The rope grazed my palms, and my limbs burned. Dizziness kept overcoming me, and I thought I was going to be sick. The movement of the water made it harder, and I almost slipped several times. I forced myself to look up, to the point where timber met sky, willing myself on. At last, I hauled myself over the side, and collapsed on deck, sucking in the putrid air.
Once I had recovered my breath, I staggered to my feet. The ship rolled beneath me, and I almost fell over again. I’d had to leave the lantern in the wherry, but the light of the moon was strong. Three masts towered above me, the edges of their furled sails snapping in the breeze. I identified the dark mass of the forecastle, and caught the odour of old food. I guessed this was where the kitchens were housed. I edged my way along the deck, rounding an enormous wooden tub. The smell hit me hard, and I recoiled. I remembered Tad, long ago, telling me about the necessary tubs, where slaves were forced to squat amidst the faeces of their fellows. Sometimes they slipped and fell in, and had to be hauled out. Sometimes they were given a dunking as a punishment.
A large metal grating in the deck led down to the slave holds below. I stiffened as I heard a noise, a voice or a moan. Human or timber? I couldn’t tell.
The quarterdeck lay to the stern and I crossed to it swiftly, filled with an overwhelming desire to get off this ship. I tried the door and discovered it was unlocked. A lantern hung on a peg next to the jamb, and I lit it with my tinder. A short corridor stretched in front of me, with several cabins opening off it. This must be where the ship’s officers slept. The men would sleep out on deck, as they had on my American crossings. I drew my pistol.
The first cabin had a pair of hammocks slung from the ceiling. Two seamen’s chests took up most of the floor. I tried the chests, and found both were unlocked and empty. Through the porthole, I could see the lights of Deptford.
The next cabin was similar to the first, though slightly larger. Again the seamen’s chests were unlocked and empty. Again I found nothing of any consequence. The crew had probably cleared the vessel of any personal belongings when the ship had docked.
The third cabin was plainly occupied by the captain. It held a carved oak bed, a map chest, and a table for studying charts. No sign of occupancy. No linen on the bed. A gust of wind rocked the ship, travelling through the old timbers. My stomach turned.
The final cabin was the largest. In the centre of the room was a chair, fixed with metal bolts to the floor. Against one wall was a stove, next to a stand of branding irons. Other implements hung on the walls, many of which I recognized from the ironmonger’s shop. Metal masks. Fetters. The speculum oris.
A dresser held bottles and jars, bowls, a pestle and mortar. I opened a drawer and saw surgeon’s knives and other tools. My eye fell upon a small metal device. Even before I picked it up, I knew what it was. A thumbscrew. It was heavy in my hand. Under the screw were metal teeth, and I slipped one of my fingers between them, turning the screw until I felt pressure bearing down. I stared at the chair, suddenly knowing with a fierce certainty that this place, part sanatorium, part torture chamber, was where Tad had been killed.
Why had he come here? Because like me he’d come to believe that Evan Vaughan had never left Deptford. Because like me he’d concluded that this was where Vaughan was being kept. Cinnamon was no good as a witness. Brabazon was unwilling. Perhaps Tad hadn’t trusted him to stand up in court and implicate his friends and himself. Yet he’d believed Vaughan was near to breaking. A prize worth having.
The prospect of the next part of my search filled me with horror. I returned to the deck, taking the lantern with me. I wrestled with the bolts on the hatch that led down to the slave decks. When I raised the hatch and lowered it, an even viler stench rose up to meet me. The tomb and the plague pit and the charnel house. A ladder stretched down into the darkness.
I had to holster my pistol to descend. The ship seemed to sink beneath my feet, and my stomach swam again. Every part of me recoiled, but I pressed on until I reached the bottom. My lantern illuminated only a small circle around me, with a vast, black space beyond. The ceiling was low, about six inches above my head. The creaking of the ship was much louder down here. I heard the moan again, like a voice heard underwater, or the crying of a child in a dream. Again, I drew my pistol.
Set into the floor ahead of me was another hatch, this one leading down to the lower slave deck. Something flashed as it caught the lamplight, something shiny. I drew closer, and saw that a large padlock secured the hatch, dazzling in its newness against the older metal.
I rattled it. ‘Captain Vaughan? Are you down there?’
Nothing. I shivered, though it was infernally hot. I called again, and again was met by silence.
If Vaughan was down there, he was not a willing prisoner. I remembered the opium Monday had bought. Were they keeping him stupefied, malleable? I wondered which of them Tad had encountered here that night. Brabazon or Drake or Monday? Or had he met Vaughan himself, down here in the dark? Had the captain struck down the black demon who so tormented him?
I could not hope to break the padlock open with my bare hands, but there might be something down here, or back in the surgeon’s cabin, that I could use to spring the lock. I walked further into the hold, occasionally stumbling over lengths of chain or coils of rope. I made out the wooden racks to hold the slaves that Monday had described in his warehouse. Cannons at the gun ports were secured with heavy blocks and tackle. Every time the ship rocked, Deptford air travelled through the holes in the ship’s side. It was the sweetest odour I had ever smelled.
Something moved in the shadows and I raised my pistol. ‘Captain Vaughan? My name is Captain Henry Corsham. I’d like to talk to you.’
Another flicker of movement, this time o
ff to my left. I could see something there. A dark shape. A man? Cautiously, I walked towards him. Then I stopped.
A length of rope was fixed to a hook in the ceiling. A man hung by the neck from a noose, just as I had last night, his toes nearly touching the floor. His face was livid and bloated. His bright blue eyes bulged unnaturally. Frank Drake.
Was it the movement of the rope that had stirred the shadows as he swayed? Or was someone else down here? I peered into the darkness, but saw no one.
At Drake’s feet was a large leather bag. Keeping one eye on the shadows, I bent swiftly to retrieve it. I shook it open, and a bundle of clothes tumbled out. I stirred them with my toe, keeping my pistol high. A black coat and breeches. A pair of silk stockings. Boots. A white shirt, stiffened with blood. I searched the coat’s lining until I found the tailor’s label. It was embroidered with the owner’s name: TG Archer.
I stared up at Drake. He had a livid bruise on his temple. I felt in his pockets, and removed the things I found there. A purse of gold. Dice. A pack of cards. A crumpled playbill from one of the London theatres. I turned it over, and saw that someone had drawn a map on the reverse. It looked like London. I put it in my pocket to study later.
Something small and square and white caught my attention in the shadows. Cautiously, I walked over to inspect it. A piece of paper was secured to the side of the ship with a knife. A long knife, with a finely worked silver handle. Flakes of brown clung to the blade like rust. There was writing on the paper, and I stared at it, until a noise made me turn. Light was filling the hold. I heard footsteps on the ladder. Someone was coming.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
I waited, pistol in hand, as the lamp drew nearer. A stocky, dark figure at the centre of the blaze. When he was a few feet away, he stopped. Peregrine Child also had a pistol in his hand.
He looked at Frank Drake’s corpse. His expression didn’t change. ‘When did you find him?’
‘Just now.’ I eyed his pistol, reminding myself that he couldn’t be the killer. Child was too short.
The magistrate’s lips were set, his bloodshot eyes unreadable. ‘Someone saw lights on the ship. They were concerned it might be thieves.’
I didn’t believe him. Since when was Child so diligent in his duties? I pointed to the clothes on the floor. ‘Those belonged to my friend. And over there, pinned to the wall, you’ll find Drake’s confession. It says he killed Archer in revenge for the fight they had at the dock. It makes no mention of The Dark Angel or the massacre. Drake says he cannot live with the guilt. Does that sound like him to you?’
Child was still staring at Drake’s corpse. ‘Maybe I didn’t know him as well as I thought.’
‘You told me he couldn’t read or write.’
‘Perhaps he learned.’
‘I thought you were convinced of his innocence. Now, after all this, you’ll accept his guilt?’
‘If he says he’s guilty, he probably is. Ockham’s Razor.’
‘Or perhaps it is a convenient outcome that everyone will accept. No need for a trial. No talk of The Dark Angel.’
‘Have you considered that might be best for everyone concerned, including you? Have you seen your face lately?’
‘I think a man stands for something or he doesn’t.’
‘It’s that simple?’
‘If you like.’
Child shook his head. ‘This is the scene of a crime. It’s also private property. Leave now, before I’m forced to arrest you.’
‘Not before I see what’s down on the lower slave deck. We could search it together? This deck too. I think someone else might be down here. Perhaps Captain Vaughan.’
Child raised his pistol. ‘I said I want you to leave. You have ten seconds before I arrest you. If you resist, I’ll shoot you dead.’
He had a look in his eyes I hadn’t seen before. Not the hot fury at the bull bait, but a cold, resigned glaze. I wondered if he meant it, and decided I wasn’t prepared to take the risk.
‘I hold you in part responsible for Archer’s murder,’ I said. ‘Whoever did this believed they could get away with it because they knew Stokes and the West India lobby would conceal the crime, and you would be their willing lapdog.’
‘Has it ever occurred to you,’ he said, ‘that you don’t know half as much as you think you do?’
‘I know you’re an embarrassment to the bench.’ I walked back towards the ladder, casting a long glance at the slave hatch with its padlock as I passed. ‘You should have stuck to carpentry, Mr Child.’
*
On my way back down the rope ladder, it took enormous effort to focus on the boats in the roiling waters below. I took another pull on Brabazon’s tincture before I cast off. Rowing took even more effort than before. An age to reach the Deptford bank, then another age to drag the wherry up to the boatyard. My muscles were a furnace, sweat soaked my clothes. I wasn’t sure that I could make it back to the Broadway unassisted.
I didn’t fancy a walk through the alleys in such a condition, so I decided to take the long route along the quays, then cut up past the gates of the Private Dock. It was possible the guards there would assist me. Yet the darker stretches of the dock weren’t devoid of danger either. I kept a hand on my sword, knowing I presented a vulnerable target.
The dock was nearly deserted. Sometimes people called out to me: whores or beggars or thieves. I ignored them, and kept moving, dragging my leg behind me. The walls of the Private Dock were still a quarter of a mile away. I needed to rest, and I sat down in the doorway of a shipping office, massaging my leg. The world was muting at the edges, attaining a softness I found comforting. Even the bricks felt soft when I laid my head against them. I closed my eyes, everything spiralling inside my skull.
Tad, are you there?
Always. Wake up.
I wasn’t asleep.
A smile. Liar.
I opened my eyes and saw the sky held a brilliance I had never known before. A dazzling firmament soared above me, the stars playing silver music against the violet heavens. Someone was standing over me, and I couldn’t see if it was Tad or God. His hands soothed me, lifting my arms, unbuttoning my coat. I allowed him to do it, until I felt a hand on my purse. With a cry, I pushed him away, then thrust at him with my sword. He fell backwards.
It was a ragged boy of about twelve and I’d almost killed him. Seeing my confusion, he scrambled to his feet and ran away.
I forced myself up, and continued along the quay, holding myself against walls when I threatened to fall down. The Private Dock still seemed very far away. One foot. Then the other. I repeated it, like a psalm, until a burly figure stepped out to block my path. He said something indistinct, and again I lunged forward with my sword.
‘Captain Corsham,’ he cried. ‘It’s me, Nathaniel.’
His smiling, dimpled face swam with the lights. My good leg buckled, and he caught me as I fell. ‘Lean on me. That’s it, sir. Come inside.’
I realized we were in the same spot where I’d seen him with the stranger from the churchyard. He led me inside the warehouse, supporting me each time I stumbled. The building had an abandoned, disused feel, like the warehouses I’d visited the other day. Light emanated from an office at the top of a flight of stairs, like the one in Monday’s warehouse. A foul, sweet smell, like carrion, pervaded the place. It reminded me of the slave ship.
‘It’s just a dead pigeon, sir,’ Nathaniel said, seeing my discomfort.
My thoughts came sluggishly. ‘Why are you guarding this place? It’s empty.’
‘The owner’s seen a downturn in his business. He pays me to keep an eye on it, stop the gypsies and the Irish moving in while he’s trying to sell it.’
He helped me upstairs to the office. A lamp and an open book lay on a table, and I guessed this was where Nathaniel passed the time between his rounds. A trestle bed stood against one wall, made up with blankets and pillows. It confused me. Nathaniel didn’t strike me as the stripe of boy who’d shirk his duties.
‘I need to talk to you,’ I said. ‘Did you see Mr Archer here, the night before he was killed? I need to know what dealings you had with him. The truth this time.’
He hushed me as if I was a child. ‘We can talk about that later, sir. You’re not right. You need to rest.’
The softness of his tone made me want to weep. He guided me to the bed, and at his urging, I lay down, unable to resist any longer. I tried to ask him something else, but the words came out backwards, and I wondered if I was already dreaming. The black waters closed over my head, and I drifted on the currents.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Something was wrong. My nakedness for a start. The warm, naked woman lying next to me in the bed. It wasn’t Caro. I was in Deptford. What the devil?
Things swam into focus around me. It was dark, but the window cast soft moonlight. I was in the warehouse office. Alarmed, I turned to the figure lying next to me. I made out the musculature of the shoulders, the horsehair wig on the floor. Nathaniel Grimshaw.
I drew back in horror, and a jolt of pain ran through my body. Nausea assailed me, all the old agonies returning. As quietly as I could, I crept from the bed. I found my breeches on the floor, and put them on, still gazing, appalled, at the naked boy. I groped around for my stockings, and knocked something over in the dark. Nathaniel rolled over. He smiled at me sleepily. ‘Captain Corsham, it’s still dark. Come back to bed.’
‘No,’ I muttered. ‘I have to go.’
‘There’s still an hour until my four o’clock round. We could make good use of it.’ There was a coyness to his voice that made me recoil. ‘Archer told me about you, sir. We talked a lot, he and I. He said there’d once been a man he’d loved with a passion that’d make Ganymede blush. I knew as soon as I saw you. I can always tell.’
‘No, you have this wrong. I’m not like him at all.’
‘It seems to me, sir – and after tonight, I should know – that you’re just like him.’
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