The Sea Officer Bentley Thrillers

by Jan Needle

  Her main fear when she skirted the gatehouse and flitted up beside the tree-lined avenue was of what the lord might say when she arrived. He had been a kindly man, but she and Cec, assured that they were safe and would be kept so, had stolen an ass and some food, and would have taken money if they’d known where to lay their hands on any. The house had offered them the milk of human kindness, and they’d spit in it. She was trembling and hungry, with her bare feet ragged from the woodland paths, and she caught herself hoping she was an object of sufficient pathos to be forgiven for her trespasses. Blasphemy again, she thought, oh help me, help me God, and please forgive me, I know not what I do. In her light-headed state, she felt like Mary Magdalene, whom her Stockport parson had told them was a blessed whore. I’m in a shift, thought Deborah, and it’s so torn parts of me hang out. Oh please forgive me though, Sir Arthur. Please.

  She’d walked out in the confusion as if it had been the most natural thing in the world. The smoke that gushed out from Milady’s gun had been prodigious, and one of the men who’d stormed in from the stairs, by accident was all she could assume, had set off another piece with a charge in it that all but deafened everybody, as well as doubling the smoke and bringing down parts of the ceiling. The screaming on the stairs redoubled, more bodies were crammed in, and everyone was shouting, with the master worst in bellowing at his wife, whom Deb saw cowering on her knees with blood flowing from beneath her hands. Blood and bodies, that was her impression, as she glimpsed Dennett still folded like a knife, with his erstwhile patient curtaining his body with her sadly lustrous hair. In the choking mist groups crammed and surged and coughed, and on one surge, almost without thinking how to do it, Deborah slipped out. Almost without thinking, but not quite. Outside the dogs were too excited to be troublesome, and in thirty seconds she was away into the wider grounds. Deb, despite her injured leg, could run. If I had had them both cut off, she told herself through gritted teeth — I’d do it still.

  It was Elizabeth, a maid she thought she recognised at the Lodge, that she let see her first. She stepped out from behind an outhouse on the home farm, stood there, and Liza screamed and almost dropped a basket.

  “Oh hush,” said Deb in anguish, and the maid stared at her injured face and caught the next yell in her throat.

  “Hide me,” said Deb, but Liza walked right up to her and touched her arm, and said she’d be all right. Deborah, losing control, then stood and cried. They were soon surrounded, they were quickly in the kitchen, and to her amazement and alarm, fat Mrs Houghton washed her face for her, with unaffected tenderness. Deborah cried as if she’d never stop, as if she were a little girl again. She sobbed.

  Later, when she’d been fed and given clothes to dress herself more modestly, Mrs Houghton told her that the master wished to see her in his parlour, and she would take her there. Deborah, whose courage had been sapped by kindness, cried once more, so the housekeeper agreed that she would stay with her for the interview if Sir A allowed it, which he did. There was a fire in the grate, the coal-oil lamps were low and smelling very friendly, and he let her sit so far from him that he could hardly see the bruises on her face. It was a world that she had never known. It made her lonely.

  Sir Arthur made it clear right from the outset that kindness and sympathy were the emotions that were ruling him, that he did not feel insulted, spurned, or robbed. She, falteringly, brought up the ass, at which Mistress Houghton and the master made it a jest, as if the subject had been rehearsed. Of all the asses they had on the estate, it seemed, she had chosen the most stubborn, with a marked propensity to bite. They waxed apologetic, hoping it had served the trick and eased her journey, and assuring her that it would have found a good home for itself when it had run away. It had not done, but she did not argue. It had been given to the men who helped her and Cec to London, in payment for their kindness. With similar delicacy, Sir A and Mrs Houghton never mentioned Cecily. The ass might exist still, so had existed. Cecily was a different case.

  He tried to draw her on the life she’d led since going, but here reticence was Deb’s choice. It had not been long but it had been a lifetime, and this warm, lovely room and cosy chat beside the hissing logs were an interlude that would end in more unpleasantness, and soon. To her, neither this ageing gentleman nor straitlaced dame seemed really fit to bear tales of lust and prostitution, even to associate the goings-on at Dr Marigold’s with the sort of fine young men they knew. It had been unlooked for, and unpleasant, and at times there had been fun. If she was lucky, Deb thought, she would go back to it, there was plenty that was worse. But she did not want to burden these good sorts with it.

  So it was when they got up to today. In her mind the scene was vividly confused, a fine mixture of impressions, so she felt. Most vividly she smelled the gunpowder, and the way it had wiped out the stench of Madam Wimbarton. Then Dennett, bloody on the ground, then the master, mad with rage and panic, roaring at his wife.

  “There was a ruff,” she said. “Part of the roof fell in, the ceiling. Servants all rushed in the room and… well, I sneaked off down the stairway, no one saw.”

  “But what did you there to start with?” asked Sir A. “In the stable, you say? How came you there, and why?”

  She’d told him that. She thought she had.

  “I told you, sir, beg pardon. That mountebank, quack doctor, Marcus Dennett. He’d come to London where me and Cecily was hid and brought me back. The teeth, sir. Cecily got shot by him.”

  Mrs Houghton tutted quietly. Maybe I han’t told it, thought Deborah. The loneliness came back, it was strong in her.

  “It was for the teeth, that’s all. Cec’s hadn’t took, Milady’s gums went off like meat in summer, so he come up for me in London to take mine out instead. Then… and then the roof came down a bit, and then I run away.”

  “Poor thing, poor thing,” Sir Arthur muttered. “They were going to prise your teeth out, were they? On the spot! Well, it’s providence, I suppose. God has His ways.”

  “Making the roof fall in,” put in Mrs Houghton, at Deb’s blank look. This struck Deb as funny, and she noted Mrs Houghton took some small amusement in it, too. “But you sneaked away, you found your way back here, which is provident, my lass. Provident enough, we hope, to make you feel safe this time. You must not go again.”

  “No, mistress,” Deb said, humbly. “Please you, I am truly grateful for your kindnesses.”

  “Were you pursued?” Sir A leaned forward keenly to peer at her. “Do you not fear it if you were, because we have a good crew here. But were you followed or sought after, that you know?”

  She shook her head, hoping she was right.

  “No sign, sir, that I noticed. And I’ve racked my brains, but not even Dennett knew I ended here the night the young men rescued us. Dennett could find me, I suppose, Dennett could ferret anything. But Dennett’s dead, God rot him.”

  “God rest him,” Mrs Houghton amended, again with humour, surely?

  “Yes, the young men,” mused Sir A. “Well, Deborah, those young fellows will…”

  He tailed off, and Deb saw a look, or signal, pass between the two of them. She made her face most open and aware, but the sentence stayed unfinished. Those young men, it occurred to her, would find her gone if they went looking, ever, back to Dr Marigold’s. Well, Will might. Will had been about to — God, she’d been prepared to do the thing with him, she’d been surprised by feeling that she wanted to; some women, if not the maids, said jestingly it could be even sweet. Ah well. If he did come back he’d find her gone and that was that. Nothing more certain than that he’d soon forget her. It simply did not occur to her that she might see him here, although she knew Sam was somehow related to the house. Deborah saw this warm room, this kindness, this promise of release from vicissitude, as a tiny break from her real life and destiny. It would not be long enough to make a lasting change.

  Deb was asleep when Bentley and Sam Holt arrived, as were most people in the house. Sir A was in his parlour still,
alone, and there was a footman posted to tell him when the men came back from London. Sir A had thought it through most carefully when Deb had left with Mrs Houghton earlier, and had determined there was no point in telling her of the imminent arrivals. The whole thing was a fever in Will’s brain most probably, he’d likely used the girl a time or two and had romantic madnesses on her. Whatever, he and Sam were pledged to try and find his nephew, and would be away from Langham Lodge as soon as they’d turned up, and slept, and ate, and made all ready.

  In any way, Sir Arthur told himself, the maid was safe, her teeth were safe, and that was all that mattered, was it not? He could tell them that before they left, maybe, to give them something joyful for their joyless journey. And when they returned — why, she would be still here, and everything might turn up capital. His mind, despite himself, turned then to darker things. His nephew Charles. The fear that Samuel could die seeking him, and William. Indeed, the maiden was a horrible irrelevance. It was right he had not told her, and he would not tell them neither, not at first.

  He knew the instant they came in that he’d been preempted. The footman knocked, but that was the only nod to procedure that there was. Sam came first, and had a concerned expression plastered to his face, but the life and curiosity in their tread was all he needed. In the saddle many hours, long trips by river, hard interviews — and they were lively as small boys. Sir Arthur felt quite old and tired.

  “My dears,” he said. “I am glad to see you home so quick and well.”

  “And we have permission,” said Samuel. “We’ve had letters off Lord Wodderley and one of them’s on board the Biter for Slack Dickie. Forgive us, sir — but the maid? Tony says she has not lost her teeth! How did she come to be here? It is a marvel!”

  “Aye, it is a marvel, it is a marvel, but — ” Oh boys, he thought, so full of life, so full. And my poor Charlie Yorke. Will bowed.

  “Forgive us, please, sir. It is only the surprise. The morning will do well enough, now she is safe. We will be leaving early as you know, but a minute before we go would be most excellent. Our journey was successful. I suppose there is no further news?”

  Sir Arthur Fisher rang then for the man, and ordered him to bring the cold collations from the pantry, and hot tea, then some wine. He dismissed the subject of his missing nephew because, he said, it was now all in their hands and he could only wait, and was prepared to. He raised a twinkle in his eye for William, and told him all he knew of Deb’s recapture and her flight. William affected cool and common human interest — one of the King’s subjects who had had some local problems but had overcome by luck and fortitude was his attitude — but his reaction when Sir A mentioned her awful cuts and bruising gave him quite away.

  The subject of Charles Yorke came up before they went to bed. There were horses ready, said their host, with saddlebags containing blankets, some basic iron rations, two pistols each, with shot and powder. In each a wallet, with both coin and notes, a not inconsiderable sum. Both demurred at this, but he flapped his hands at them and would not argue. It was theirs to spend on whatever need arose, he said. Food, shelter, buying information, bribes — the money was of supreme unimportance to him, its existence was solely to facilitate the achieving of an end.

  “If you can do it without spending a groat, all well and good,” he said. “If it costs me every groat I have, the case is just the same. Now to bed. And William — the maid will wait!”

  *

  But Deborah did not wait. She slept fitfully, and woke up with a start of terror when she heard the sound of horses in the yard, and woke another girl who had been put in with her to keep her company. The second maid was heavy with sleep and tiredness, and most uninterested in supposed marauders, which was “not the way in master’s house” she said. Then she told Deb casually — having no idea of its significance to her listener — that perhaps the two young Navy men were back, who’d gone off that day but no one had known where. Her irritation at being further questioned had gone away when she remembered Deb had been first brought to Langham Lodge by Mr Samuel and his friend, and she confirmed that these were the two who had been seeing master earlier, having ridden in “all in a sweat.” The girl had wanted more talk on the subject then, but Deb, a little sore that Sir A and Mrs Houghton had kept so mum, pretended no further interest or knowledge of them. But she lay there with her brain positively seething, straining her ears and all her other senses. If they were here, if Will was here, she was going to find him out. She knew it.

  Another half an hour to be sure her bed companion slept, and Deborah, without a candle, with almost no light throughout the women’s quarters, began her quest. Last time she’d gone from here she’d had Cec with her, clumsy and whimpering with pain, an awful liability. This time it was almost easy, she almost knew the place, she knew at least the doors she should avoid and where the stairways were. Clear of the quarters, on a lower floor, she needed luck, some sort of clue. Dressed all in white, and drifting into proper people’s chambers, she might be taken for a ghost. More likely she would find Sir Arthur Fisher or (if her rooms were not on some servants’ floor) the housekeeper, both of whom clearly wanted her to know her place and keep it. They would not take her for an unquiet walker of the night, but they would surely exorcise her, and double quick.

  She had the luck. As she stood hovering at the end of a long, forbidding corridor, a latch clicked, and a door opened as she stepped into shadow, and Sam Holt emerged with a candle in his hand. He was fully dressed, and before he closed it, he said clearly through the door, “Till morrow, Will. God rest,” then turned his back to her and took another door a good way further on. The passage dark once more, Deb stood stock-still for just one brief instant, afraid that she might change her mind, then almost ran, touched the latch, lifted it, and entered.

  William was standing by the bed, a big one with a canopy, but he had his back to her.

  “Back soon,” he said, not turning. “What ha’ you forgot?”

  Deb opened her mouth, but found she could not speak. Will bent to fiddle with a boot, and grunted.

  “Be useful, then. Give me a pull with this — Ah, Christ! Deborah! Oh, Deb!”

  They made a picture standing there, the maid in shadow but her nightgown glaring in the candlelight, the young man all agape. He was in breeches and an open shirt, and momentarily, he had balanced on one leg. He put his foot down to the floor, he opened out his hands, then dropped them to his sides.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “It was just — They did not tell me. Am I allowed?”

  “’Fore God, Deb! Jesus, have you seen your face? God, what have the villains done to you?”

  He stepped towards her, and for a moment she tried to hide herself. Then she decided, and stepped forward strongly, lifted back her head. He flinched.

  “Yes, I have seen it, it is mine,” she said. “I am sorry if it offends you, but it’s the only one I have. Look — ” she bared her teeth, and snapped them like a dog. “I still have all my teeth.”

  They needed laughter, but neither one could laugh. But suddenly they could move together, and they were touching hands. Will gazed upon her face extremely closely, and neither of them shrank.

  “Well, I am glad for that,” he said, at last. “Deb, you are a walking wonder, how come you to be here? Sir A has told a tale indeed! Sam and me went to see the house, we wanted to break in but it’s a fortress. I thought we were too late, that they would — Oh Deb, you are a lovely sight!”

  “Hah!” This was a shout of laughter, short but merry. “You only ever see me with a broken face, sir! This time a broken knee an’ all, I had to hop off from them, and some pretty bruises underneath the gown! Dennett came for me, sir, the one you had to save us from before, he stole me out of Dr Marigold’s and killed poor Cec. But… but you say you went there, sir. What, to the magistrate’s? How can that be? How come you here, for that? I thought it was Navy business you were on.”

  “Aye,” said Will. “But afterwards. We
looked to save you, Deb; we talked to Mrs Margery, and came on hot-foot. The work downriver was sooner over than we thought, is all. We thought… I thought… well, instead of going to our duty we went to Marigold’s.”

  He was looking fairly at her, and he blushed. The odd sensation that she’d felt before caught her strongly and — extremely bold — she put her arms around him. She did not believe they’d come to try and save her, run from London and their duty, that could not be true, but for now it mattered not at all. There was a warm and giving feeling in her, and when their faces met, not all the tenderness was forced on them by her bruises. Their faces met, and their mouths were joined, and moved and rested on each other as though their souls were flowing through. For both of them, it was amazing sweet.

  Will knew little of these things, and Deb but little more, but they both began to undress him, half clumsily but with a pleasure that was intensely keen. He fell across the bed to drag one boot off, while Deborah, on her knees, dealt with the other, which was not so tight. She then leaned on to him, between his legs, and helped him to unfasten at the waist, which made him squirm, and gasp, and grit his teeth for fear that he would spend. Deb, as deftly as she’d done it in the past to little brothers, eased his breeches down his legs and off him in a movement, then in another, seeing what was happening to him, untied the ribbons at her neck to let her nightgown rumple to the floor.

  “Sir,” she said, “look now. And it is free!”

  Perhaps it was the humour, perhaps his crisis passed, but Will opened his eyes, rolled on to his side, and got his passion under rein. Perhaps it was her saying “sir” which saved it for him. He stared at her great beauty, her bruised and abraded body, the red and livid patches on the milky white, and he was swept by awe and gratitude. He reached his hand out, she hers, and they touched at fingertips.