by J.A. Clement
Chapter Four
It was quite a lot later before Copeland reappeared, leaving Blakey below stairs. He went up to the room that Madam kept solely for his use, and had a couple of the girls sent up to him.
When they rejoined the rest, one limping slightly, they whispered that, though the sounds from below had kept the Black Cat clear of custom that night, Copeland listened avidly for each scream and whimper as if they were music to his ears. He had not washed the blood from his skin but gloried in it, licking it from the back of his hand with evident enjoyment.
Madam took a lamp into her study where she unlocked the substantial cupboard. From the stores she kept for the wealthiest merchants she brought out a large bottle of the best brandy. The lamplight glow flickered redly in the swirl of the brandy like some unwholesome trickling of blood. She was not prone to fanciful imaginings but in the shadowed room, with those sounds echoing in her ears, a chill shivered down her spine. She retreated swiftly into the parlour, pouring a generous tot of brandy into all the girls’ glasses. They huddled round the sleepless fire, one of the younger ones weeping quietly. No-one asked where Bet was, or Emma.
None of them went to their rooms that night. They simply sat together, silent and unsleeping, as the fire died to smouldering embers and the slow dawn edged the night shadows back into the corners of the room, while above, Copeland slept the deep, untroubled sleep of total satiation, his face still crusted with spatters of blood.
As day broke, Madam stole up the stairs and looked into Copeland’s room. He was sleeping heavily and had the look of one who would sleep for hours yet. She closed the door softly and returned reluctantly to the parlour, hesitating by the door to the dark room downstairs to listen. The sounds had died away but there was still no sign of Blakey. Just below the edge of hearing there were noises, too low for her to make out. She took a deep breath and cracked the door open, then nearly fell down the stairs herself at the sight of Blakey sitting halfway down with his head in his hands. He looked up at her involuntary exclamation.
“Mr Blakey? Are they...?” Her question tailed off into horrified silence as she saw the mask of blood which made him look barely human, but he answered it anyway.
“Dead? No. But don’t go down there.” He stood to bar her way.
“Can I... Can I see to them? I mean, if you’ve finished with them?”
“If I’ve finished with them?” His laugh was horrible. “It was him, not me. I don’t think he’s human.”
“Shhh!” Panic made Madam lay her hand across Blakey’s mouth despite his blood-crusted cheeks. “Come to the kitchen. You need to wash.”
Blakey stumbled after her, squinting in the sudden daylight. At the rain barrel in the yard he stripped to the waist, tearing the stained shirt off himself with sudden revulsion, and washed thoroughly. When he returned he was cold but more in control of himself. He took the shirt he had been wearing and dropped it in the fire, leaning wearily on the overmantel to watch it burn. When there was nothing left but ashes and an acrid smell, he sat down at the kitchen table and dropped his face into his hands once more. Madam went to the scullery, poured out a tankard of ale and put it at his elbow.
“Thank you.” He drank deeply. She waited. Finally he said “Leave them as they are until Copeland sees them. He’ll want to gloat. It’s a mess in there, looks worse than it is - I saw to that as far as I could, but...”
He downed the rest of his ale. She refilled the tankard.
“Normally, I do the beatings. I know where you can hit someone and mark them but not damage them too badly. Everyone knows that that person has been seen to, Copeland can see that they’ve been beaten up, and whoever it was doesn’t get much worse than a bit of swelling and some big black bruises which go away eventually. Normally I do it, and I mark them. But he didn’t stop at that.” The burly man shivered, and for the first time looked up at Madam. “Bet and Old Emma - you’ve heard, right?”
“They didn’t come back,” Madam answered slowly. “Do you know where they are?”
“He attacked Emma with a knife. Her body is in the harbour somewhere. And then Bet-”
“She’s not dead too?”
Blakey shook his head. “Bet’s with Mickel. Copeland slit her face open.”
“And Nereia and Mary?”
He looked away. “I dealt with Mary. She’ll have showy bruises but there’s not much damage done. As for Nereia, Copeland got creative-” he wiped his aching eyes and continued “-with a knife. She’ll mend eventually. It won’t be quick.”
Madam sat down heavily. Blakey fought to keep his eyes open while his face crumpled with exhaustion. He was talking too much, he knew, but somehow he couldn’t stop the words coming out.
“I’m sorry about Emma, and Bet too. But I’ll tell you this; I’ve killed a man in anger, but I’ve never used a knife on a living creature like that.” And with that, Blakey lay his head down on the table and slept.
Across the harbour, Mickel woke with a start. He rose from the chair in which he had been napping, and stole across to the bed. He had expected Bet to come round a while since, but either he had given her more poppy than he thought or her healing process was going to be complicated. She was moving now and muttering slightly, but without waking up.
“Bet?” He laid a gentle hand on her forehead. It was hot; too hot.
“No!” Her eyes flew open at his touch but she did not see him. “No, please! I’ve told you everything! I don’t know anything! If I did I’d tell you - I don’t want to end up like Emma! No, put it down! Get away from me! No! Please, no!”
So it was not to be a simple wound. The girl was delirious and burning with fever. He sat on the edge of the bed and bathed Bet’s forehead with a cool wet cloth. He didn’t often get angry but he was still simmering down from the message with which the errand-boy had returned hours earlier when Mickel had sent for the doctor. He couldn’t believe he had heard correctly at first, but in retrospect it was very much in character with this benighted town. That damned coward tried to disguise his fear as hauteur but it shone through every word the boy recited. He could hear it now...
“Please sir, I’m sorry but Doctor Wen says he has received your message and thinks it must have been intended for someone else. He says he doesn’t come running at all hours of the day and night to pander to penniless whores, not least ones that have offended Mr Copeland. He says not to bother him again…”
The boy faltered in the face of Mickel’s expression; after a moment’s amazed outrage, Mickel let fly a volley of oaths that made the messenger boy blanch. Word had got round quickly about the episode in the harbour, it seemed, and even the haughty doctor was not fool enough to set himself against Copeland.
Mickel looked at the slice running down the girl’s face. Once upon a time he’d been very good at this sort of thing, but it was years since he’d threaded a needle for anything other than darning his clothes. And yet he’d never thrown away his medicine chest, nor emptied it; force of habit, he supposed. Leaving the bedside, he made his way to the kitchen, removed the old blanket covering the huge chest in the corner and spent some minutes oiling the hinges so that he could heave the lid open. He took a smaller box from inside. Who’d have thought it, after all this time? He hefted it under one arm and limped back upstairs.
He’d given Bet a draught of poppy to make sure she didn’t wake and assembled needle and suture, bandages and dressing. He paused for a moment with trembling hands to send up a prayer to whoever might be listening; and then for the first time in five years he picked up the tools of his trade. She would have a scar, there was no helping that, but if he could just recall a little of his old skill the scar might not be much more than a white mark.
By the time he finished, the extra candles he had placed around the room had burnt low in their sockets. He tied the last of her bandages and straightened up. He ached as if he had been kicked all over.
He got rid of the bowl of bloody water and the cloths he had used, cleaned his needles and replaced them in the medicine box, washed, changed his shirt, and then went back in to the bedroom to watch his patient. He sat in the low chair in the corner of the room and, pouring himself a glass of wine, drank a toast to his patient’s health. And at that point, he realised just how long it had been since the last time he had followed this little ritual, and had to put the glass down before it dropped out of his suddenly nerveless hand. He winced a little at the stiffness of his neck and shoulders. There wasn’t much more he could do for her now. It was down to watching and waiting; and hoping, he supposed, though it was a long time since he’d been able to do that.
Down in the town the marketplace was busy with people; unusually so for the time of day, thought Arram as he set the last of his loaves to cool. The smell of warm bread wafted enticingly from the bakery and as soon as he’d opened the doors of the shop people flooded in in little groups. Most were there to buy but amongst all of them there was only one topic of conversation; did you hear, someone actually tried to run? But last night they caught them.
There was no need to enquire further, certainly not for those who lived within earshot of the Black Cat, and the news of their disturbed night had spread across town like some sinister disease. People stood in clusters talking in low voices. Arram looked around the thronged marketplace, strangely quiet compared to its usual clamour.
Somewhere deep down, Blakey’s enquiries of the previous day had ignited the tiniest spark in everyone’s heart. Everyone had been willing the girls to get away just to prove that it could be done; their capture was the death knell of hope even for those who had never met them. There was no escape from Copeland; and what happened to those who’d attempted it was a question that no-one would voice though it was written large on every face. Arram sighed. There must have been a time before Copeland when every day had not been laced with dread, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember what that had felt like.
The morning wore on, and still there was no sign of Copeland. Madam paced from the parlour through the hall into the kitchen, where Blakey still slumped on the table, and back again. She was anxious to go downstairs to see what could be done and the longer it was put off, the worse it would be. One by one her girls came back to the Black Cat. There was no business out there for them this early in the morning but though the brothel was still shadowed with the events of the night, they had nowhere else to go. If the sun had dared to come up that day it was hidden behind thick grey cloud, so even the light was cold and colourless. A fine drizzle was falling and the morning was chill.
All were exhausted but lingered in the parlour. No-one would go upstairs. They wanted an end to the previous night’s events and Madam was of the same opinion. Eventually, she couldn’t bear it any longer. She slipped upstairs and, opening his door just a little, let out a hiss of disbelief. The man was still asleep! He never slept past dawn and, despite his exertions of the previous night, it had only been an hour or so after his usual time when her girls had left him sleeping like a baby. She hesitated for a moment, and then snapped. He had no right to sleep. Shutting the door silently, she paused a moment then knocked.
“Mr Copeland, sir, are you awake?” There was a moment’s silence. “Mr Copeland?” There were sounds of movement from within and he came to the door, wrapped in an opulent dressing gown.
“Hello?” he said muzzily. “What do you want?”
“I hope I didn’t wake you, Mr Copeland, but the cook was asking if you’d be wanting your breakfast brought up before she goes.”
“Breakfast?” He passed a hand over his eyes. “What time is it?”
“It’s past ten o’clock, sir, and the cook usually goes home at half-past.”
“Past ten?” Copeland stared at her. “Where’s that oaf Blakey? I have to find those girls. Why has he let me sleep in?”
“What girls? There are others?” Madam breathed, paling.
“What do you mean, others? Have you been paying no attention whatsoever, woman? We have the thief and her sister to find. You and your whores were supposed to have been looking for them. Are you trying to say that you didn’t know about it?” He stopped, arrested by the look on the woman’s face.
“Sir, are you talking about Nereia and Mary?”
“Of course I’m talking about Nereia and Mary! Who did you think?”
“But sir, they’re here, still, in the cellar rooms.”
“They are? Has Blakey caught them and not woken me? The damn fool!” Copeland started to stride forward but Madam was still in the way.
“No sir, you brought them in yourself last night.”
“Don’t be stupid, woman, I think I’d remember it!”
“Mr Copeland, you spent several hours in there with them yourself,” Madam said unsteadily, “and I don’t think you’ve washed your face yet.”
The apparent stupidity of this non sequitur would have angered him at any other time but Copeland was unnerved enough by Madam’s manner that he went back into the room, opened the curtains to let in the light, and looked in the mirror. Madam, still frozen in place, watched him start, look closer and then douse a cloth in the pitcher of water on the side and scrub frantically at his face, looking sick. She slipped away downstairs. Copeland would not appreciate a witness to this display of weakness; it would be wise to give him a little time to gather his wits.
She headed for the kitchen to wake Blakey. It took some doing.
“Mr Blakey, Mr Copeland is awake, and I think he’s going to be in a very bad mood,” she told him. “It might be as well not to let him find you asleep.”
“Thanks.” Blakey yawned as he followed Madam into the parlour, and sat heavily on the sofa. Madam sat down at the little table by the window and went back to hemming a skirt for one of the girls. It would be sensible to look occupied when Copeland reappeared and besides, from there she could just see the corner of the upper landing. What that meant was - yes, there were Copeland’s feet; he was sneaking silently down the stairs. She picked up her mending and by the time he walked in she was busily lining up the hem, holding her extra pins with exaggerated care between her lips, so that it was obviously impossible for her to be talking or indeed commenting on his moment of strangeness upstairs.
“Madam,” he acknowledged politely. “Ah, Blakey, there you are.” He raised an eyebrow at the prospect of the bodyguard who sat, yawning and shirtless. “Been enjoying yourself, have you?”
Blakey shot him an unreadable glance. Madam carefully put her pins away and turned to the little man.
“Good morning, Mr Copeland. I’m afraid I’ve had to let the cook go home, but if you want breakfast I can send out for some.”
“I won’t be needing any today. I think Blakey and I will go and see how our runaways are getting on this morning, then we have work to do.”
“Very well,” she continued in her most businesslike manner. “Mr Copeland, I was wondering if you’d mind if I sent someone down there after you’ve finished? If there was any blood got on the furnishings it’ll take some getting out, and it’s easier sooner than later.”
“Blood? Why should there be blood?”
Blakey looked at his employer sharply and so did Madam. She chose her words carefully. “I don’t know that there is, but the customers complain if the furnishings look dirty so I always check all my rooms when they’ve been used. Of course if you’d rather I didn’t, there’s no more to be said.” She went on with her mending.
“No, no, I’m sure that there’s a great deal to be said for it,” Copeland stuttered. “Cleanliness is very important, very important. By all means do as you see fit. Blakey! Let’s check up on them before we leave. Madam, I wish you a good day.”
Copeland followed Blakey across the hall to the cellar door, where he lit a lamp to light them down to the rooms below. Copeland was hit by a sour metallic smell that was almost a taste.
For a moment he could not put a name to it, but as Blakey turned up the lamp, Copeland saw just what it was. Blood.
After a few moments the door slammed open and Copeland almost fell out of it into the hallway. He breathed heavily for a few moments and when he spoke, it was in a strangled voice. “Well, Blakey, you’ve made an awful mess of her. I told you I’d need her in one piece and she’s only barely that.”
Blakey hesitated. “Mr Copeland… I didn’t touch Nereia.”
“What do you mean? The girl’s a mess! I don’t know what possessed you, to do all that.” What Madam had been saying couldn’t possibly have been true. You didn’t just lose an entire day and not remember anything. There was no way he would lose control of himself to such an extent, and there was no way that he could have done this.
“Sir, it was you. You pushed her down the stairs and then - well, you wanted to break all her fingers, but decided you’d have to make do with two so you said you’d just have to play with them for a bit. Which you did. Then you-”
“Don’t be so stupid, man, how would I be able to do that and not remember it afterwards?” Copeland was petrified in his place.
“I don’t know why you don’t remember it, Mr Copeland.”
“Yesterday?”
“Last night, sir, after sundown. We caught them at the pier, when you cut open that other girl’s face, and threw her in the water with what was left of Old Emma.”
“What happened to Emma?”
Blakey paused, looking taken aback. “You did, sir, if you take my meaning. Surely you must remember that?”
Copeland looked around wildly. “Remember? No, I don’t remember! Wait - I remember being angry, very angry, but the rest... No. I didn’t do this. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.”
Which was rich, thought Blakey, but actually true. Normally he really couldn’t do that sort of thing himself, which was why he paid Blakey to do it. “As you wish, sir. But you might want your belt knife back. It’s at the bottom of the stairs there.”
Copeland ventured back to pick the knife up, but dropped it in revulsion. It was sticky with black-clotting blood from point to pommel. Crumpled on the floor in the corner, a bloodied shape was curled protectively round a smaller figure. Sensing him, she tried to speak but could not; coughed, and tried again. Her voice was cracked and hoarse, barely more than a whisper, but it carried to the other side of the room where Copeland watched in horrible fascination.
“It was you, Copeland. You did it all, not Blakey. It was you...” Her voice trailed off into what Copeland thought at first were coughs or racking sobs but as they got louder, he realised that they were neither. The girl was laughing, a terrible grinding laughter than had nothing to do with mirth.
“Stop it!” His voice cracked as he yelled. “Be quiet! Stop it, I tell you!” Abruptly he couldn’t stand it any more. He fled up the stairs, past Blakey, and away along the road. When he got to his own building, he slammed the door shut behind him. He leant against it briefly, but still he heard that laughter... He started up the stairs to his office. In his office he would be safe. In his office he would regain his self-control and things would come back to normal.
“Mr Blakey? Is everything all right?” Madam asked, coming out of the parlour. Blakey turned to her.
“It appears that Mr Copeland’s memory is not what it used to be.” He cast her a look, which she returned levelly. Then he nodded, and with no more than that, an alliance of sorts was formed.
“Is he finished?”
“He is.”
“Can we go down there?”
“You can now. I don’t think he’ll be back.” Blakey’s voice was grim.
“They’ll be all right?”
“In time. They’ll heal, eventually. If there’s anything they need that you can’t get, have someone tell me.”
“I’ll send a message with one of the girls, if that’s what you want.” Madam shrugged. “But why? Atonement? Surely it’s a little late in the day for that sort of thing.”
“Perhaps it is. Perhaps it’s too late to do anything at all. But the younger girl, Mary, she didn’t do anything. She didn’t deserve what happened to her. She just went along because she loves her sister, and now look at her.” He sighed. “Copeland left her to me so she’s more marked than hurt, but... I’m hardened to it by now. It’s what I’ve been doing every day for the past seven years, after all. But each time I hit her, I felt like she was my own child. I’ve never been so ashamed.”
“Then why do it, Blakey?” Madam was genuinely interested.
“I’m doing all the wrong things for all the right reasons. I can’t explain any more. I’m sorry.” And with no more to say, he left.
Madam watched him go. Her girls had congregated round the front of the building, sitting or leaning on the wall under the overhanging eaves, and they all clustered forward at her beckoning.
“All right, they’re gone,” she told them. “We have a lot of unpleasant clearing up to do and we’re going to need help. Susie, go to the docks and get someone who’ll help us to move Nereia and Mary. Tara, go fetch the midwife. There’s no point calling the doctor because he won’t come, but she knows as much as he does about blood and bandages. Amy, go to Mickel; we’re going to need a couple of bottles of strong spirits from his stash and anything he has in the warehouse that might be useful. Ask if Bet’s there and find out how she is. The rest of you, come with me.” Madam strode inside followed by her troops, and paused in the hall. “Right, girls, this is not going to be nice. Anyone who isn’t sick at the sight of blood, go change into your oldest clothes and be back here in ten minutes.”
Mary, curled in her own personal darkness, dreamed the lights came back. When they took Nereia away from her she cried out; the close contact between her sister’s body and her own was the only real, solid thing she had to hold onto. Then hands gripped her. She was carried away to some other place, and the swaying movement merged back into her dreams of blood and darkness.
Madam walked up the stairs with the threadbare blankets from the pallet in the underground room, her face wrinkled in distaste. She was usually the first to maintain that things could be washed and mended, but these were going straight on the fire. Once in the back yard she dumped the blankets in a pile on the ground. There’d be more than just these to burn. What little furniture had been in the cellar room was mostly broken and splintered, the rag rug on the stone floor was stiff and discoloured in places and, if the truth be known, Madam did not want anything in her house that had been a witness to those events. It was unreasonable, perhaps; but then reason had nothing to do with it. She had had quite enough of blood following the army in her youth. Now, having established herself here, it seemed that blood had come back to haunt her.
Back in the kitchen, she washed her hands and poured a cup of the scalding, bitter coffee that was simmering away on the stove top. It burned her mouth but she drank it anyway, standing in the little sheltered space under the porch, looking out over the harbour. The sea was ominously calm. Pressed close under the heavy clouds, reflecting their dark weight, it was veiled by that pervading dampness that was too heavy to be mist and too fine to be drizzle. Madam shuddered. This end of the year it was all rain and frost, and the nights were getting longer and darker, until sometimes it seemed that the darkness would reign forever.
She took another sip of coffee. She was getting fanciful now; probably lack of sleep. She was too cold to stay out here anyway.
“Madam? Could I have a word?” Mickel was hurrying along as fast as his leg would allow, with a generous basket full of provisions.
“Mickel; come in.” She ushered him into the parlour, not wanting to talk in the street. “I understand you have Bet with you?”
“I do. Her face is bandaged and she’s come down with a fever but she seems to be holding it at bay for the moment. I’ve left your girl with her, though. I don’t want her left alone just at th
e minute. The others...?”
“Nereia and Mary are here. I’ve just got rid of Mr Copeland and Blakey, not half an hour back.”
“Can I see them?”
Madam looked at the little man. “Why?”
“There was a time when I was a medical man, after a fashion. The doctor wouldn’t come for Bet; I’m guessing he won’t for them. I consider Nereia a friend and I know she’ll be anxious about Mary. I can help.”
Madam’s expression softened from the grim lines of distaste left by the morning’s work. “Perhaps you can,” she decided after a thoughtful pause. “I’ll take you up there. Is there anything you need?”
“I have it all here.” He nodded at the basket he had brought. “Oh, and your bottles of spirits.”
“Thank you.” Madam opened the door. “This way. They’re in the big room upstairs. We didn’t want to separate them.”
Blakey climbed up to the garret above the kitchen and took a clean shirt from the chest at the end of his bed. Dressed once more, he paused in the kitchen to have a drink of water before continuing up to the office.
Copeland had the windows open. He was leaning dizzily on the windowsill, his head dampened with the drizzling rain as he gasped in great breaths of the cold air.
“Mr Copeland?” Blakey came further into the room. “Are you all right?”
“No, I am not all right!” Copeland turned from the window, paled and quickly went back to his previous position. “This mess in here... I can hardly breathe! How am I to do any work when my papers are in a great solid mess on the desk?”
Blakey smiled grimly. Copeland was squeamish, true, but he’d wager a gold piece that that was not the main point of worry to the moneylender. “It was like this after you killed Old Emma.”
Copeland whirled, marched across the room and poked a finger in Blakey’s chest. “Get it cleaned up, now, and when it’s spotless, come and tell me.”
“Where will you be, sir? In the Black Cat?”
Copeland retched. “In The Mermaid - the private parlour,” he spat as he left, almost breaking into a run down the stairs. He wandered through the town in a daze. He had not done these things, he couldn’t have! How was it possible that he should wake up and find the whole day had finished? But the last thing he remembered was setting out with Blakey two mornings previously. He remembered the first visit; the second seemed a little more unreal, and the third was just shapes and pictures like a dream that faded into incoherence. And then the next thing he knew was that he’d woken up in the Black Cat with no idea of how he’d got there. He shuddered. He’d thought Madam had gone mad until he’d seen his own face in the mirror with blood crusted across it, spatters and smears where he must have touched his face with bloody hands. He glanced down at his hands. There was still black blood solid under the nails, and stains in all the cracks of his skin.
He staggered down an alleyway and threw up until there was nothing left in his belly. How could he have done all that? The thought revolted him. He retched vainly again. Had he lost control of himself? Of his mind? How could he not remember? Clattering through the little back-alley, almost fleeing, Copeland slipped on the damp, muddy surface and fell to the ground. He sprawled unmoving for a few moments, winded, while the drizzle chilled his overheated face. Then he sat up, a little calmer, and did some thinking. He couldn’t deny that he’d lost a day somehow; but there was nothing to say it would happen again. Nobody knew except Blakey and Madam, and neither of them would be foolish enough to comment. He frowned. He had a feeling there was something he should remember about Blakey but it was all lost in the mists of yesterday and, on reflection, he really didn’t want to remember yesterday. Ha! In fact that was it! It was not a loss of control if he chose not to remember it. If it was his choice not to remember, that was all right.
He stood up, shivering. He couldn’t go back to his offices yet and he couldn’t face the thought of the Black Cat. The best thing to do was go to the Mermaid as planned, go to the private parlour and sit in front of the fire with a bottle of brandy until he had dried off.
Copeland straightened his shoulders and slicked his hair back down, trying ineffectively to brush the sticky mud from his trousers. He took a deep breath, turned the corner and strode into the Mermaid. Conversation broke off as he entered and then started again at a lower tone, making his instincts scream. They were talking about him. They should not dare to talk about him. Was it showing that he couldn’t remember? Was his control slipping? He could not afford for that to happen, but right now he could not think clearly either. He strode over to the bar.
“I’m going to the parlour. I’ll need the fire lit, and bring up a hot toddy.”
“Yes, Mr Copeland, sir,” the landlord stuttered. “Er, there’s a gentleman in there, sir, a captain, but if you’ll give me a moment I’ll ask him to go elsewhere.”
“A captain? From where? Of what?”
“I’m not just sure, sir, but I think he said was just in from the other side of the mountains.”
Copeland considered this. He could have the man thrown out and have the parlour to himself, which was what he really wanted to do - except that in his normal state, Copeland would never have passed up a chance like this. The Captain sounded like the sort of trader that would prove invaluable to Mickel and hence to himself, once the city scheme got going. No, he had to act as if everything was as usual so that the whisperers in the taproom would not know how rattled he was.
“Tell him you’ve double-booked the parlour and he’ll have to share it,” Copeland decided at last. He followed the landlord up the stairs and waited impatiently while the man talked to the parlour’s occupant; then the landlord backed out again.
“He says you’re welcome, sir.”
“So kind of him. Don’t forget that toddy, dolt!” Copeland was irritated by the Captain’s condescension but if he was the sort of man Copeland thought, there was nothing to be gained by offending him and everything to be gained by winning him over.
“No sir, coming right up sir.”
Copeland waited till the landlord was out of sight, and then took a deep breath; and another. He stood quietly for a moment to calm the beating of his heart.
Long-suppressed memories flashed back at him, of a gaunt, staring woman ranting and raving, thrashing in the mud of the street as they dragged her away to the House of the Possessed. Six years old, he had been taken to visit the stranger that was his mother in the squalor of the madhouse, as she alternated fearsome violence with earnest pleading and weeping. He had woken screaming with fear every night for a year afterwards and had been afraid of ending up like her ever since. All he knew of her was fear and pain and anguish, the noise and stench of the asylum, and its utter desperation. He would not end up that way. He would not.
He took another deep breath, taking comfort in the repetition. No, he would not. It stood to reason. He was no backstreet widow stuck in a tumbledown shack with two small children. He was a man of wealth and position without a care in the world. He virtually owned a whole town, by the gods!
After a moment, he felt his heartbeat slowing as his self-possession returned. The moment had passed, he told himself. He was back to his old self. Now to do business. He walked into the parlour. The Captain sat languidly by the fire, his legs crossed, with a lorgnette swinging idly from one elegant hand. He was a very good-looking young man, probably not yet twenty. If he had been more poorly dressed Copeland would have asked where his father was but he knew that wealthy youths got up to all sorts, and this youth was clearly wealthy. He was wearing a suit of heavily jewelled and laced court clothes in a delicate shade of apricot and looked as utterly out of place in this threadbare room as an orchid growing from a rotting log. He raised his quizzing-glass, cast a measuring glance at Copeland standing there in his wet and muddy clothes, and raised a haughty eyebrow.
“Sir,” he acknowledged. “Jem has acquainted me with your wish to share this parlour. Pray take a sea
t.”
It was galling to be treated so patronisingly in his own parlour, in his own town, but Copeland said nothing. It was obvious from the youth's clothes that he was used to moving in the highest circles; just the sort of contact he needed.
“Thank you.” He sat in the chair across the fire from the other. Something compelled him to add, “I must beg your indulgence for my appearance. I met with a mild mishap on my way and had to send my servant back for a change of clothes.”
“Nothing serious, I hope?” enquired the other politely.
“No, nothing serious.” There was a pause. The youth yawned delicately, covering his mouth with slender white fingers.
“I’ve ordered a bowl of hot toddy. If you wish to partake of some, sir, you’d be very welcome.”
“Good lord, no!” The youth looked faintly horrified. “Toddy from a provincial tavern? My good sir, have you seen what passes for brandy in these parts? And I see no reason to suspect that the whiskey should be any better.”
“You are a man of fine tastes, sir?” Copeland sensed an opening here.
“Finer tastes than this godforsaken place can cater for, alas! And I regret to say that I shall be forced to stay for three whole days. Whether or not I shall survive is open to question, and if I do, it will be weeks before my valet forgives me.”
“May I make a suggestion, if it would not be considered impertinent?” In the interests of business he put on a winning smile. “There is little to tempt a gentleman of your tastes here, perhaps, but if you are prepared to pay for quality, there is a merchant along towards the harbour who might have goods better suited to your palate.”
The youth was apparently galvanised into action by this thought. “Call the landlord, man, and we’ll send my valet across!”
Copeland yelled down the stairs for the valet before returning to his seat. “It occurs to me that I haven’t introduced myself yet. My name is Copeland; I understand that you’re a ship’s captain?”
“Oh, that’s merely a whim, sir; they indulge me. I own the boat - sorry, ship - and they sail it. When they came back from their last voyage it all sounded to have been tremendous fun, so I decided to actually go along on this voyage in a moment of - well, in an unguarded moment, you understand.” The Captain waved a hand in the air and Copeland’s gaze was fixed by the sheer size of the stone on the ring he wore. “Unfortunately, we hadn’t been an hour out of port when I discovered that I get hellishly sea-sick. Sick as a dog for four whole days! I’m positively haggard, I tell you. My valet does his best, but that’s the terrible truth. If I were back in Mardon you wouldn’t see me out of my room in this sorry state, but here I don’t suppose it matters.”
“Mardon? You live in the city, sir?” Copeland’s eyes glinted with greed.
“Certainly, in the season; though obviously, I spend the summer at my estates near Ravensburgh. To think I saw fit to leave!” he exclaimed sadly. “I could have been at Lady Westford’s ball this evening and instead I’m trapped in the provinces with inferior brandy!”
“Do you speak to Lady Westford often?” Copeland was breathless at the idea of such social heights. If only he could gain access to them!
“Good Lord, yes!” the other guffawed. “I ought to, she’s my aunt! Never forgive me if I cut her dead in the middle of the street!” He paused, and sudden enlightenment shone in his eyes. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry; I should have said. I’m Lord Westford. Lady Westford’s my father’s brother’s wife. Do you know her well?”
“Do I... Oh no, my lord, I don’t know her.”
“Probably just as well,” Lord Westford told him confidentially. “The woman’s a terrible battleaxe. Ah! Just in time!” he exclaimed as the door opened. A dark, curly head was thrust through it.
“My Lord?”
“This is my valet, Vansel. Vansel, Mr Copeland here says there’s a merchant who might have a passable brandy. Get them to deliver some at once - maybe six bottles or so, twelve if you think it’s any good.”
“Very good, my Lord.” Vansel turned an enquiring eye upon Copeland.
“The merchant you want is called Mickel. The landlord will send someone to show you the way.” Copeland paused, looking at the younger man narrowly. “Have we met before?”
“I don’t think so, sir,” Vansel replied. “Do you spend much time in Mardon?”
“No... I must be mistaken. Your name seemed familiar, somehow.”
“Vansel is a very common name over Ravensburgh way,” Westford commented jovially, “though not as much in Mardon. More variety of everything there which can only be a good thing, if you ask me. Which said, what about going to find that brandy, Vansel, there’s a good chap?”
Vansel put on a long-suffering expression, bowed, and left.
“He’s a tyrant in the dressing room and none too pleased to be sent on errands,” Westford noted mournfully, “but the man’s a genius with a cravat, so there’s no more to be said.”
