Blood Will Out

by David Donachie

  ‘Enough!’ she said quite forcibly, putting an end to depressing speculation.

  If he’d got into trouble, it was of his own making, all down to his love for Tulkington’s sister, added to his determination to effect a rescue. How could she hold herself to account for what followed, which ended up in the torching and utter destruction of her own property? The death of the poor old soul of a groom, who’d been chucked out of Cottington Court, could not be laid at her door. As for the sheriff, let him find out the identity from others, not her.

  ‘Holy Mary, for all that, Edward must be found.’

  ‘Miss?’ Dottie asked, her worried face plain in the mirror; her employer was not given to sudden outbursts.

  Saoirse gently took the brush from her hand. ‘Thank you, Dottie, that will be all for now.’

  Downstairs she found Dutchy and his shipmates sitting at a table laden with empty dishes, talking quietly, Vincent having gone back to his stables. The expectant way they looked at her was annoying, given what it implied. Why should she have any more idea of a way to proceed than they? But there was agreement, which said sitting doing nothing and waiting would not serve.

  ‘You will have to go to where you think he might have ended up to ask if he’s been seen, maybe taken in by some kind soul. A wounded man cannot just be ignored.’ The gloomy looks obliged her to add the obvious. ‘If he’s suffered more than we hope, there’s nothing more to be done.’

  ‘Other than burying him’ was an unwelcome thought and Saoirse knew, as the four heads dropped to look at the table, it was one shared. Having just a moment past been slightly irritated at their attitude, it softened to something akin to sympathy, for in this reaction was a degree of affection bordering on something greater. She knew they respected their old captain in the way men do a good and decent commander, but this went beyond mere admiration.

  ‘Happen we should let word out,’ Dutchy suggested. ‘The more folk lookin’ the better.’

  ‘Best not for now.’

  Such an abrupt answer was given for any number of reasons. The message would get to the likes of John Hawker in no time, so they wouldn’t be the only folk searching. But there was the damned sheriff to consider as well, with him being on the hunt for criminality. Being armed and breaking into private property was not something to bring to his attention, however high-sounding the purpose.

  ‘Let’s see what you can find on your own for now. Head the way he might have gone and ask around. But say nothing about his carrying a wound unless you have to.’

  ‘Long shot for just four of us,’ Joe muttered.

  ‘Best one for now. If you can get him back here and he’s in need, he can be attended to.’

  ‘Can we berth at the Navy Yard still without him bein’ present?’ Dutchy wondered.

  ‘Best do so, like you said last night, in case he shows up,’ was Joe’s answer.

  ‘And if they start asking for him?’ Peddler asked. ‘What’s we to say? Likely we’ll be out on our ear.’

  ‘I can put you up here,’ was the response from Saoirse.

  ‘Got tae thank you, ma’am, fer such kindness,’ Cocky Logan said.

  Kindness? More like foolishness, Saoirse thought. What I should really do is show you the door and forget all about Edward Brazier.

  ‘It’s too dangerous to carry out your plan at present, John, with a high sheriff grubbing around. The slightest slip could be fatal.’

  ‘Then what do you suggest, Mr Tulkington?’ The query lacked any sense of supplication; it was more pique. ‘Keepin’ them here for more’n a day or two will be hard to cap a stopper on. Daisy Trotter worked out where they were afore an’ it’s no good thinkin’ it were guesswork. There be any number of our own workers coming and going, even more folk bringing their animals in for slaughter. It was never a sweet idea first time round and it’s even less of a one now.’

  ‘It’s as sound as dragging Harry Spafford along the Lower Valley Road for the whole town to see. And for all anyone of those who witnessed it, he’s still here! Can you not see the consequence if anyone whispers his name into the wrong ear?’

  ‘They’d pay for crossing me.’

  ‘Dammit, as if you’d ever know.’

  Such a sharp rebuke hit home with someone already in a less than happy mood, which went beyond his previous rumblings of disquiet. He’d been called back to the slaughterhouse, Tulkington having sent a couple of his men out to find him, not that such a thing was hard: he was a person whose passing was marked by many. But the demand had irked by the nature in which it had been issued and delivered.

  ‘I had it planned to end tonight,’ was conveyed almost as a wish.

  ‘We must hold our hand until this Cottin fellow has gone.’

  Trying and barely succeeding in containing his concerns, Henry knew from Hawker’s piqued expression he’d spoken too abruptly but his own mood precluded subtlety. Since departing the Lodge, he’d allowed his imagination free rein, inducing much uneasiness. Feeling the need for haste, in case Hawker had already begun to act, he had eschewed his carriage, with the chance of being held up once more, to walk hurriedly along Middle Street, a route he normally avoided. Nothing he’d witnessed in the narrow, teeming thoroughfare made him want to repeat the experience.

  Even in broad daylight, flasks of gin were being dispensed through street-level windows by numerous naval widows, to customers already well oiled. The two penny whores of all ages and specialities were at work and they, spotting a finely dressed gentleman, saw him exposed first of all to offers he found insulting. This turned to loud, carnal and demeaning ribaldry as, with a level of blushing hauteur, he’d passed them by.

  ‘Whatever you say, but I would want them moved from here.’

  ‘Perhaps back to Cottington would be best?’

  Delivered with a serious expression, John Hawker knew what the reaction would be and was not disappointed: Cottington was out of the question but it pleased him to pay back in kind an employer acting out of character and, to his mind, with a degree of unwarranted fright.

  ‘Can you be serious, man? I had you with more wit.’

  A stricture applied ever since it was purchased, anything to do with the smuggling business had to be kept away from the house. At all costs the Tulkington family must be seen as upright country gentlefolk of independent means. They had no difficulty in justifying their wealth: tax-gathering aside, Henry had inherited a well-run stud farm, added to many acres of productive fields. He also did profitable business in parts of the lower town as well as the countryside around, where he now owned all but one of the flour mills, with high hopes of a clean sweep, once this present business had died down.

  Tempted to point out such a policy, thanks to the actions of Brazier, had already been twice breached, Hawker knew it to be unwise: he could only afford to needle this man once, so wisdom dictated a degree of humble pie.

  ‘Then I is at a loss to know what to suggest, your honour.’

  The pacing up and down which followed was another indication of Hawker’s state of mind: normally he was very controlled, signs of tension well concealed. He was now lacking his normal composure, which was far from comforting. Unknown to Hawker, such an emotional state applied to his employer as well, induced by the deepening feelings already experienced. Matters had got out of hand and Hawker’s actions in the matter of Harry Spafford might bring on consequences over which he could have no control.

  It was natural, given Henry’s nature, to blame this on other people. Thus, as he had navigated his way along Middle Street, everyone who’d irked him these past weeks became subject to mental censure, even Hawker just castigated. His ingrate sister was roundly damned for thwarting his will, Brazier likewise for aiding her and setting things off-kilter. Even his aunt was cursed for questioning his judgement and last, for no one could be excused, came his Uncle Dirley in London, a very vital hub in the entire operation, for contacting Elisabeth by letter, without informing Henry of his intention to do so. />
  Sowerby and his like he blamed for the presence of this damned sheriff, which showed, to his mind, nothing but plain stupidity; another concern then surfaced, and it was a far more troubling one. Did they suspect him, even if they dare not say so, to be at the root of the fire at Quebec House? If they did, how far would they go to ensure no opprobrium fell upon them? They were, as his mood grew increasingly darker, lily-livered scum who were happy to accept his largesse while secretly plotting behind his back to save themselves.

  ‘I needs an answer, Mr Tulkington, cause I can’t think of one.’

  It was near a minute before Hawker got his reply. ‘They must be taken to Spafford’s place and kept there. This can only be for a few days and it will be easier to move them from there to where their luggers are beached, so it will better serve your purpose.’

  The look Hawker got took immediate cognisance of his doubts, but Henry was not going to be defied. ‘You brought them here in a covered van, did you not?’ A slow, far from enthusiastic nod. ‘Then move them tonight, and that, I must add, is my final word on the matter.’

  A long moment of mutual staring was required before Hawker acceded, with Henry feeling it necessary to soften the atmosphere they had, between them, created. He was sure his tone of voice posited honest feelings and regret as he repeated his reasoning; to his employee the silkiness and slightly weening tone raised hackles of mistrust.

  ‘We have had our troubles recently, John …’

  Your doin’, not mine, stayed unspoken.

  ‘… which should never have occurred. But properly handled, they will pass and we can go back to the peaceful pursuit of our operations.’ Still sensing discomfort, he added, ‘If I have spoken bluntly, I ask you to consider the burden I carry.’

  ‘Whatever you say, Mr Tulkington.’

  Passing to the north of the slaughterhouse as this conversation was taking place, three of Edward Brazier’s old barge crew were heading in the direction they’d traversed the night before, Joe Lascelles again having been left at the Navy Yard in case the captain showed up. The notion of splitting up had been discussed, only to be dismissed. With no knowledge of what threats they might face in daylight, in unfamiliar country, small comfort came from safety in numbers.

  The notion it was a fool’s errand might be in all their minds, yet it was not raised: staying put and doing nothing would drive them mad. Each carried a sack containing bread, cheese and beer supplied from the Old Playhouse, the intention being to stay out once darkness fell, resuming the search in a wider arc throughout the following day. Saoirse had sketched them a rough map showing the various parishes around Deal, the aim to head first for the spires of Sandwich, then turn vaguely east and south in the hope of a sighting.

  Luck got them an empty cart heading along the Sandwich Road, no more than a rutted track, which ran between a distant Cottington Court and the shoreline. Dutchy having, to no avail, quizzed the carter, stood the whole way, his eyes ranging over the landscape, both reed-filled marshland as well as the cultivated, ditch-crossed fields further inland, seeking any sign of a saddled horse or, worse, a wake of feeding crows.

  They took to walking as they came level with Cottington, exchanging words with those working in the fields − not many, it was true. No details were volunteered, but the negative responses were enough to ensure there had been no sign, which had to be taken as true: anything untoward would catch their attention. The marshier parts of the landscape, also crossed by deep ditches, seemed an area of more promise, even if one very obvious fact emerged. Spread out to cover as much ground as possible, what they were about was going to take time. They were traversing a flat and featureless coastal plain, long stretches of which lacked any evidence of humanity, covered with long, deep grass, which bent in the wind.

  ‘He could be a’laying in that lot and we’d never see him.’

  Peddler pointed this out as they gathered and squatted by a riverbank to eat some of the food. The river itself was slow moving and muddy, twenty feet wide and probably just as deep. The remark got him a cussed look from a pair of companions who had no notion to curse their endeavours by harbouring negative thoughts.

  ‘An’ don’t go tellin’ me we should be seeking his cuddy, there bein’ no surety the beast would’ve stayed around if’n he fell off.’

  ‘Ye got another notion, Peddler?’ Cocky asked, through a mouth full of bread and cheese.

  ‘None of us have,’ Dutchy snapped, ‘so I’d be obliged if you’d both clap a stopper. There’s no way this here water can have been crossed, so once we’ve followed it down to the shoreline, we can double back and head inland.’

  ‘Should’ve got the horses back. We’d have covered more ground.’

  Which got Peddler enough abuse to shut him up.

  The wait for the light to fade gave John Hawker too much time to think, none of it coming out as encouraging. Tulkington might say matters would settle back to normal but to his mind such a state had gone for good; a malevolent spirit was out of the bottle and there was no putting it back, which meant vague thoughts of moving on had surfaced. He did not want for money accumulated over the years, yet any serious consideration saw them dismissed: where else would he find employment to both suit his gifts and satisfy his character?

  He’d just have to take Henry Tulkington as he found him, carry out the work he undertook with as much efficiency as he’d shown hitherto and let other matters take care of themselves. For now, he had to get Spafford, the men he led and the bodies of Trotter and Harry to the farmhouse outside Worth, without it being noted by any nosy bugger, including those in the still busy slaughterhouse.

  Killing was over for the day, but there was butchering being carried out, as well as barrelling and salting of the day’s slaughter, before the knocked-up casks could be sealed with pitch, hot irons then used to burn on the source, the date and the nature of the contents. Likewise, lamps had been lit in the tannery so work could go on in the curing and drying of hides. There was the need to get rid of piles of bones, which would go to the glue maker, as well as bloodstained sawdust, which the vegetable gardeners who worked strips behind St George’s Church took off his hands, so carts coming and going should be nothing to remark upon.

  When he judged the time right, he went to the outside storeroom in which his captives were held. Dan Spafford lay on the straw-covered floor, his normally ruddy face pale, eyes closed but still breathing. The bodies of Trotter and Harry Spafford, now rigid, were wrapped in sackcloth, while the gang member with the flesh wound sat against the wall looking wan.

  ‘Gag ’em, Marker, old Dan as well. If the bugger wakes he’ll raise Cain.’

  ‘Where we goin’? Mr Hawker?’ This plea came from a fellow called Dolphin Morgan, sporting a bandaged arm, who was reckoned to be as thick as a beachside berthing post, which to Hawker summed up the whole lot of them.

  ‘You’re goin’ home, Dolphin,’ was the jesting reply. ‘Afore long you’ll be toasting your toes by the farmhouse fire, just like days of old, and maybe a muffin as well.’

  Dolphin must have wondered why those words had Hawker’s men chuckling, but he asked nothing more. The gagging was carried out without protest; no one wanted to rile a man who, rumour had it, was capable of cutting up dead bodies, packing them in barrels, then sending them off to parts foreign in place of pork.

  The outhouses in which they’d been housed backed onto the track to Sandwich, so getting them out and into the van without attracting too much attention was possible.

  What would draw the curious eye, and this edge of the town had a fair number of nosy hovel-dwellers, would be John Hawker mounted and leading a dozen hard bargains bearing muskets, half in front of the van, the rest to the rear. They were well away from any building before the torches they’d brought along were fired up, a couple of men going ahead to light the way in the fading light.

  Twilight made what Dutchy and his mates were about close to pointless. Having reached the mudflats at the mouth of
the Stour, then looked along the long strand of beach which fronted the Sandwich Flats, they turned to make their way back towards the Sandwich Road, now devoid of people either carting or walking between the twin towns. There was no searching to be done now; with the light fading they needed to follow the lighter sky and find somewhere to rest up.

  ‘Be best in a wood, Dutchy. Chill will come later, so we need tae light a fire.’

  ‘I spotted some trees earlier, Cocky, not far off on t’other side of the road. We’ll rest up there.’

  ‘Give me a ship any time,’ Peddler moaned. ‘This walkin’ lark is for dolts.’

  ‘Should make you chipper, then.’

  ‘Will you stow it, Cocky? I’m not in the mood for your digs.’

  ‘Furst it was the bluddy mare you couldn’a be doin’ wi’, an’ now it’s Shanks’s pony. Best grow wings, mate.’

  ‘Hold up,’ Dutchy hissed, an insistent command which brought silence, his own actions making the next words hardly necessary. ‘And get down.’

  If John Hawker had not been mounted, riding between a pair of flaring torches, all Dutchy would have seen was a man on horseback. Nor would his identity have really registered with Cocky or Peddler, who’d seen him but once and very briefly in Middle Street. Dragging him along in the dark on the end of a rope, from the seat of a horse he had just been a shape cursing and spitting. Nor had they had a confrontation, one to one with the bastard, as had Dutchy the day he arrived in Deal. He’d squared up to the sod as he manhandled a fair-haired young lad, drunkenly pleading to be set free, and it had come close to blows before Hawker dragged his captive off.