The Sea Officer Bentley Thrillers

by Jan Needle

  She was elated, it emerged, because had he not turned up this night, it is likely that the day would have been missed. Isa’s confirmation, obtained not far after dark, was shocking close — not six days or more, but four. There had been a conference as to what to do, how to contact them, but finally, at Kate’s insistence, two boats had gone to make a rendezvous of long standing way off St Catherine’s with French “colleagues.” Kate had had two reasons, she added, both good: had Isa tried to get to London to track them down his chance of failure would have been enormous; and had the crews not sailed to meet the Cherbourgers, spies might have noted it, and shadows wondered why.

  But Will, still standing, could hardly take it in. In four days’ time, four days? His back ached horribly, every bone and muscle could be counted, his head buzzed with fatigue. He could not remember when he’d last slept a proper night, or had his clothes off and scrubbed himself with soap and water, all the cracks and crevices. He was sore, and tired to his marrow. A plume of steam burst from the kettle spout, and he wanted hot sweet tea.

  “But I must ride,” he said. “Mary, four days? I must ride. Our ship is scarcely ready, and even if she were… Heavens, is this for definite?”

  It was, and Mary did not try to stay him, or suggest his anxiousness was in any way misplaced. This was a one-chance thing, the only opportunity, and both had an equal longing it would be carried off. As she explained exact locations and a time, with tide details and a hand-drawn chart and map, Will drank tea and ate cold ham and cheese, and then — as he was forcing his mind to quit the house — he fell asleep beside the fireplace. Mary considered waking him, but then brought a blanket to drape him with. She sat for two hours opposite, and watched his grey, strained face but would not sleep herself. At some time after three o’clock she gently woke him, and he had more tea, a wash, and went out to the privy. She did not make him up a saddlebag of food, because at some stage he would have to stop for another horse most likely, and would eat there. The night was cold and clear the hour that he left; the moon had set.

  “God speed you, Will,” said Mary. “And… and let us meet again.”

  *

  Biter was still at Deptford, Will discovered at the receiving hulk, and when he got to her was positively aswarm with dockyard hands. Both masts, from a distance, were well set up, but as his watermen hauled nearer he could make out tasks still to do with fore topmast rigging and the bowsprit furniture. Alongside was a variety of yard tenders, but astern of them, rather to his surprise, was the captain’s skiff. Anxious though he was to see him, Will had half expected him to be away in London’s fleshpots. In half a day or less, as he computed, the vessel would be fit to sail. All she needed was a captain and a master.

  Gunning was present, too. Will paid the wherrymen and scrambled overside to see the bulky form — quite clearly stone-cold sober — working at the binnacle with a Deptford man in overseer’s beaver hat. Gunning gave a double look at the pale-faced landsman in the much-travelled clothes, but did not stoop to smiling when he recognised him. Some of the men did though, and let out jovial shouts, which Will ignored. He headed for the cabin. Despite the chill breeze down the river, its door was ajar. Will rapped, heard the command, went in.

  For Kaye, it was a scene of rare activity. He was at a table spread with charts, with the stooping supernumerary, Kershaw, pointing with a bony finger. Even upside down Will recognised the outer estuary of the Thames, with the Kent shore up to the North Foreland. Oddly, he had a premonition. Why these charts, this area? Surely this was not a navigation lesson?

  “Hah!” said Kaye. “At long last, Mr Bentley. We are sailing in the morning, I had started to give up hope of you. Mr Kershaw, you had better go.”

  Kershaw straightened, then bowed briefly. As he passed, he nodded a small greeting but did not speak. Will’s mind was in a turmoil.

  “In the morning, sir? Well sir, that is excellent. I have the times, exact, I have a chart that shows the spot the landing’s due at, and the meeting in the house. It is three days hence, but if the weather holds — ”

  Kaye interrupted him. He set his soft face into hardness, made the petulant soft mouth firm. His voice was touched with righteous anger.

  “No sir!” he said. “It is not three days hence, but the day beyond tomorrow. I have my own charts, here, and here. I have intelligence received — no thanks to you — and the plan is set for all contingencies. You talk of rich men and corruption but you have no detail. You talk of common smugglers as if they were a worthy prize. I talk of blackhearted traitors who give succour to our enemy. We will take a hundred of them, sir, and slam them back in jail where they belong. No thanks to you.”

  It fell in to Will that Sam must have betrayed him, though inadvertently for sure. The target was to be Céline’s Frenchmen, there could be no doubt of it. Kaye had got intelligence somehow, and had reneged on the East Sussex operation. In his exhaustion, Will found it all quite dizzying.

  “But sir! Our friends are — There will be important — ” His head was buzzing. There was a look like triumph in Kaye’s eyes. “It is a golden chance,” he ended, lamely. “An opportunity. I understood that you — ”

  Kaye spoke incisively.

  “I weighed it up and found it wanting, that is the fact of it,” he said. “I found it very interesting, and most unlikely to be true. Your friend has more intelligence than you and — forgive me, but I feel this undeniable — is more the patriot. What we will attack is not just a case of vulgar profit, so common as to be of no account, but a form of villainy of great, of prime significance.”

  Will should have blazed with fury at the calculated barbs, but his senses were all blunted.

  “You offend me, sir,” he said, and Kaye almost laughed. “But where is Sam?” he added. “Where is Mr Holt? If he is still in Sussex, then — ”

  Kaye’s colour heightened instantly, he was taken with real rage, not a simulation. He slammed his hand down on the chart-strewn table.

  “Downriver, sir, to join us later, and damn your damned impertinence,” he snapped. “He said you would not want this, he made that very clear. Mr Holt will do his duty, you will see.”

  “But sir! You will not leave him on the beach alone! Those men are ruthless, violent, he expects a force!”

  “He is downriver! I confide that he will join us, he might even come this night! There is no doubt about his patriotic feeling, no doubt at all!”

  “‘Fore God, sir!” shouted Will. “I — ”

  “Silence, sir! Silence! I will hear no more! Have you no proper clothes on board here in your berth? Then dress yourself immediately, dispose yourself for duty, wash and shave! We sail on the ebb tomorrow morning and you will bear yourself with rectitude! Now sir — quit my sight!”

  Outside, although the light was fading, the dockyard men and sailors were all active still. Will breathed deeply of the river air, his limbs beneath his clothes trembling so hard he thought they would be seen. The Biter was alongside the rigging wharf, starboard side to, and almost without a conscious intention he crossed the deck, swung legs across the bulwarks, and clambered down on to the dockside That Sam Holt had betrayed him he would not believe. That he was waiting further down just made no sense. That there might be a message was possible, that he must leave one if there was not, his plainest bounden duty. Will strode through the yard along the riverfront until he reached the steps. He selected the two strongest-looking watermen, and offered them a half a guinea extra if they could make their wherry fly.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  It was a hanging matter; what he’d done, but Will did not expect to hang for it. Unless he found some dire communication at Dr Marigold’s that should delay him, he hoped he would be back betimes at Deptford, where he had no fear of anything save bluster from his commanding officer. Despite his clothes and travel-stained appearance he was recognised at the outer door and treated civilly within. Starving by now, he ate hot meat and oysters from a passing wench, and washed it down with al
e. The heat was prodigious, the noise and music like a drug, but he crossed the court before the comfort overwhelmed him. Sam’s description of Annette amused him as he waited at the doorway to the inner house: like a whip. Then her bed, mercifully, would not be a place for sleep, and sleep, oh sleep, was the only thing in the whole wide world to tempt him between the covers. Quick message, given or received, and he would be away.

  Mrs Putnam, when she saw him, gave a squeak much younger than her years. She half rose from her table, and put her arms out as if she would embrace him, except there were three feet of deal between them. Her expression was between amazement and alarm.

  “Mister Bentley! But so soon, how did you know? And those togs! Have you then left the Navy?”

  “Margery, well met. Forgive me for the clothes, I am in haste.”

  “I wager that you are! Indeed you are!” She bustled backwards from her seat, and did come round the table. Her face was positively roguish as she took his arm. “Well, I declare! She said that you would find her out, but so quick, so very quickly!”

  “Annette?” said Will. “Has he sent a message then, already? Where is she?”

  “No, not Annette, you gooseturd!” snapped Margery. “Christ, do not tell me you’ve forgot!” This gave her sudden pause; she jerked his arm distractedly, then released it. “But she’s protected now,” she muttered. She raised her eyes to his. “I’m talking of your Deb,” she said. “But what mean you? Have you not come to search her out, to see her?”

  There was a horrible excitement rising in his guts and nearly drowning him. It was so clear, that Mistress Putnam sighed with glad relief. Unceremoniously she dragged him down the passageway, past all the doors he knew that led to tiny rooms that whores lived in, into a quarter that he did not know. It was more opulent than the outer reaches, with fewer doors. Before one of these she stopped, put her finger on her lips, and listened.

  “Lor’!” she whispered. “How I wish that I could stay and watch. But as I’m paid to stop it happening, I’d best just fade away! Don’t knock; go in and fear her senseless!”

  She pushed him at the door and slipped off down the passage without looking back, but Will had to fight himself for some time before he could even touch the latch. When he did so, and it made a small noise, he removed his hand as if it had burnt him and, unthinking, gave a rap. For a moment there was silence, save for his panting. Oh hell, he thought, oh hell, it is Deborah within.

  She was dressed as if for evening in a long pale gown, although it was too early in the normal way, and the chamber was bedazzled with the light from many candles. Her hair was dressed up on her head and William noted that her face, though touched with powder, was underneath it almost free from bruises — the first time, in fact, that he had ever seen it thus. Before her expression burst into wild delight he took in her beauty with a swoop of recognition, the full red mouth, soft curve of cheek and neck, luxuriance of hair, and eyebrows thick and serious. Then she sprang at him, damn nearly knocked him down into the passageway, and they tangled in each other’s arms.

  “Oh sir, oh Will!” she gasped, as they drew apart. “Oh Will, you’re here! Oh sir.”

  The passage was still empty, but they got into the room. It was largish and full of light, and by whorehouse standards the top of luxury. For a moment it arrested him, he was taken by the drapes and mirrors, by the expensive smell of burning beeswax. The bed was huge, with posts and canopy, and there were two doors leading off, it was a suite. Then she moved in again, and face to face they held each other, each swamped and flooded with a similar relief.

  “I’m here,” he said, “but so are you, Deb. Why? How has it come about? I saw Sir Arthur, and he said — He said… that you were safe.”

  He drew back, to hold her at arm’s length and look at her. The colour in her pale brown skin began to rise.

  “I am safe, Will,” she said. She moved her head, as if to show the room. “As you can see. This is mine, I am the mistress here.”

  There was an expression in his eyes that made her stop. Oh God, thought Will, she is protected. Margery said it, and this apartment is all hers. This bed is hers for lying with her benefactor on. The man who pays, and comes to sleep with her. Despite what Sir A had said — and he had said protection, too — despite it all, it could only be the magistrate.

  “Will,” said Deb. Her voice was almost piteous. “Please, Mr Bentley, do not take it hard. We can do it, sir! I will lock the door! Please do it with me, Will! I want to; please, I want to.”

  The blush had spread right down her neck to the soft across her bosom. Her fright, or anguish, shamed him, for he knew he had no right. She was off from Wimbarton’s house and all his evil men, but only to be made his city whore, for visiting. And Jesu, he thought, if it came to him to be her saviour then surely she would starve or end up in the gutter. Then, enveloped in her scent, the smell of her skin that he’d retained intact within his memory through all the days and rides, he had a rising urge to lie with her again, on this protector’s bed, and damn his very soul!

  “In any way,” he said, thickly. He gripped her by the shoulders, pulled her in to him. “In any way, why should you be faithful to that rogue, that villain? What right has he to keep you to himself!”

  His desire had become violent in a second, his need was powerful, and he bore her back towards the bed without thought for the door, or undressing her or him, or anything. But Deb resisted. Her face was shocked, she pushed back at him with both hands.

  “A rogue? Why do you say that, sir? He saved me, he is a friend.” Suddenly, she understood. The blush increased and darkened, spread like a crimson burn across her face. “Oh Will, not Wimbarton, it’s Sir Arthur. Not him; your friend and benefactor.”

  The shock was like a blow. He let go his grip on her and Deborah, unbalanced, sat on the bed abruptly. Will, too close, stood back. He stared at her, and she had to turn her face away.

  “He rescued me,” she said, voice faint. “He bought me from the magistrate, I think. He — ”

  “Bought you! How bought you? Before God, Deb, do you mean Sir A, Sir Arthur Fisher?”

  “But not for that, though! Not as a whore, Will, he is too old. Oh listen, listen to me!”

  She covered up her face as if in tears, and Will drew further back. He saw she was in tears, they were wetting through her fingers, dripping on her cheeks. Strangely, he still felt desire, his stomach was hollowed out with urgency, but he also was ashamed by it. In a movement he spun to sit beside her on the bed, and put his arm around her shoulder. Deb put her hair into his face and neck. For some moments neither spoke. He listened to her breath shuddering, held her, squeezed her with one arm. Slowly his lust subsided, and her tears.

  “It was what you told him,” she said, at last. “After Wimbarton came to steal me and Sir Arthur made me go. I told him they were lying and Dennett was dead and buried but he thought I was a lying sluttish whore, in league. Then you came back to his house and told them too, you said I’d said that I’d seen Dennett shot and it was true and afterwards the master did believe it, Mrs Houghton said, he was ashamed at what he’d done to me. Oh Will, oh Will, I cannot do the words together, can you follow what I want to tell? It was you, it was your words saved me from that Wimbarton, that pig.”

  She cried again, more copiously but less racked with pain, and William held her, and stroked her hair and face. As far as she knew the story, it emerged, Sir A had listened to what Will had reported, and possibly had been struck by fear and guilt. When the storm of grief about his nephew had begun subsiding, he had contacted the magistrate and tried persuasion, a hint of investigation by the law, and finally good simple cash. He had bought her back, although not to live with him as Wimbarton had assumed, but because — according to the household women — of his great Christian conscience. But still, Deb said sadly, he truly thought that she was fallen, worthless, bad. He saw her once, for a matter of five minutes, and asked her where she would like to go.

  “I co
uld not stay in his house,” said Deborah. “He did insist on that, he said it would not be seemly and in any case he trusted neither Wimbarton nor his violent men. He said that if I stayed they’d kidnap me one day, if I even so much as walked out of the purlieus, but I think in truth his reasons were for shame, people would get to hear and think he’d bought me for his harlot. Then he said there was a friend in Hertfordshire, an old man, an even older man than he! I was to sit, and do some tatting, go to church on Sundays and grow old, I guess. And still he’d pay me, I was not to fear for starving or the streets.” She smiled at William, she was composed once more. “Had I dared to, I would have asked to wait for you, then gone and been your friend, wherever. But I think he feared that, too, for your sake. I think he feared I’d be a clog on you.”

  She needed it, so William took her hand and squeezed. Some of her candles were guttering, giving aromatic smoke. She glanced at them proprietorially, they pleased her, he could tell. Sir A was paying well for her, however little she gave him in return. He was a strange philanthropist.

  “How came you here, then? Surely he does not know the house, or what sort of place it is? Sam and I took care to keep it privy when we used it; it’s not much like his holy man’s in Hertfordshire!”

  Deb bounced up off the bed and nipped some of the candles out between her thumb and fingers.

  “I said ’twas safer here. No, don’t make that face, ’tis true in some ways, the old Herts party I’d have murdered out of boredom or just run mad and jumped into a river, would I not? I said I knew a house in London, quite respectable, where I could lodge with women to look after me. That’s true as well — there’s Mistress Putnam, Margery, there’s even Mrs Pam to kick my arse if I get saucy. And Dr Marigold, I could tell him with great truth, had plans to bring me on, give me an education, which is also so, and all the time he got the cash none could molest me. The clincher was, no one would ever find me in this teeming rabbit hole of London, no Wimbarton or his yokel ruffians, and the mountebank, sweet providence, is dead. That left only one I knew would come here, although the dear old man, of course, did not. I say I knew, but in truth I only hoped. ’Twas you.”