‘Thanks for what you’ve done so far. Next time we split a bottle of wine, it will be on my bill and a damn good one.’
‘I’ll say good day to you, then.’
A hand was held out by Brazier to be shaken once more. It was, but Vincent Flaherty was more taken by the look of determination in the eyes.
‘It was no joy to hear you might be dead, Edward. Nor is it you might be risking it come true.’
‘How many falls did you have as a jockey?’
‘Lots, and puff went the purse with it.’
‘And you got right back on, I’ll wager.’
‘I did when my bones healed.’
‘Bones, wounds? Same thing.’
John Cottin could be reasonably satisfied with his day, the events of which he was running over in his mind as he made his way back to Deal. His letter had gone off through the Sandwich franchise, he’d enjoyed a splendid lunch, while a note to the mayor had brought him to the Crispin Inn to take wine and enthusiastically damn the villains of Deal. Cottin’s supposition Sandwich was just as criminal when it came to smuggling was put aside for the mayor knew the men of whom he spoke.
In living memory, Deal had been under the jurisdiction of the ancient Cinque Port, according to his guest the breaking of which and the granting of a town charter to Deal being a grave error. Cottin now knew something of the personal failings of the men with whom he had dealt, not one, according to his informant, having anything which qualified them for office. Recollecting this polemic, he could smile at what was obviously rivalry from a much more sedate neighbour to one raucous in the extreme. Added to which, and this had been the real source of complaint, the income from the Downs anchorage, which had once filled the coffers of Sandwich, now provided the main revenue of Deal.
Even ruminating on these thoughts, he could not help but wonder how long Pitt would take to respond. Would he even read the letter, for in the office he held he must receive dozens every day? Cottin couldn’t just hang about forever: he had duties to attend to and matters coming in to his own office, which might be of more vital import in terms of reputation than the death he was now investigating. He too would be in receipt of much correspondence from Westerham and if it was sufficient to call him away, he would just have to go.
Back in Zachary’s sparsely furnished abode, with his host fussing over the grate and the food cooking therein, Brazier was wondering about the presence of this lawman. Not knowing any better, he took it as commonplace such an untoward death as Lionel Upton’s should draw such a personage to investigate. As he had no doubt who was the likely suspect, he was wondering how to play matters so the culprit faced justice, but without involving Betsey.
Already deduced, there would be no sign of Tulkington’s hand in the torching, but what about Hawker, who was cut from the same mould? Even if Henry set matters in motion, he was too wily to have his own actions visible. It was idly taking in Zachary’s back, added to his lack of alternatives, which prompted him to pose the question. He knew immediately it was one unwelcome as his normally smiling host spun round: he wasn’t smiling now.
‘Cottington Court is unknown to me.’
This had to be a lie, merely by the nature of the reaction. From such a deeply religious and cheerful soul, it had to be serious enough to warrant him breaking his faith. He had to remind himself the things he’d read about had happened long before Venables had won the services of Zachary. Added to which, the man lacked letters, so would not know what was in the journals. What he’d read had raised suspicions and, the more he thought on it, perhaps something objectionable, though he was no prude. Life in the King’s Navy inured you to much, while relations between men which transcended mere friendship were far from uncommon. One of the first lessons a new naval officer learnt was when to apply the ‘blind eye’, given no ship of war was free of activities forbidden by the Articles of War.
HMS Diomede had carried a crew of over three hundred men, the total varying but not by much. Some of the first rates in which Edward Brazier had served as a rising lieutenant mustered crews of over eight hundred. They were made up of young men from any number of backgrounds, usually several nationalities, and would number a few women, those never enough for the crew numbers. The gunner’s wife excepted, women were technically barred from being aboard.
The Articles of War stood as the bible by which navy discipline operated, formidable in the number of offences it prohibited, the most common requiring a loud step, the warning of approach, being gambling. No matter what the admiralty said, it could not be stopped; Jack tar would always find a way and a place discreet enough for a bit of wagering, cards and dice, though the latter were noisy, with men to warn of the coming of authority.
The purpose of a man-o’-war was to fight and defeat the nation’s enemies. Discipline had to be tight but not taut; a crew too heavily weighed upon by the ship’s officers were likely to become sullen. It was necessary to trust the petty officers, who would bring to the attention of their superiors if certain activities were getting out of hand, things which might harm the fighting efficiency of the ship. But they would not report or see everything as long as it was kept within acceptable bounds.
They too would turn the ‘blind eye’, sometimes even to acts bordering on indecency. Such men had to live close to the crew, while it was an axiom well known in the service someone seen as a bully or a sneak could, too easily, disappear on a dark and windy night in the middle of an endless sea.
If Venables had been inclined to anything untoward, could he have hidden it from a man with whom he lived so hugger-mugger, given there was not much more than room to swing a cat in this abode? In addition, Zachary had claimed an association with Venables which transcended one of pure master and servant. If the former had spent so much time at Cottington prior to serving with the army, could it have passed without mention in the time they’d spent here?
‘I thought you would know of it,’ was imparted with an ingenuous look.
‘And why would that be, sir?’
Zachary asked this over a bent shoulder, he having returned to his cooking, a pot in which he was boiling a pair of rabbits. So as I can’t see his face, was Brazier’s thought, but how to proceed? Nothing would come without being open. Was what he suspected true and who did it involve? He would need to be bold and take a risk of causing offence.
‘I took the liberty, since you left them out, of casting an eye over the diaries left by Mr Venables.’ The growl in the throat was low but audible. Was it anger or just seen as natural curiosity? ‘A quick glance, I do assure you. The name of the place was mentioned often and, since I know something of it myself, I wondered at the connection.’
‘It was a house and grounds my master took great pains to avoid.’
‘Why?’
‘He must have had his reasons, sir, but they were not told to me.’ The smile reappeared, but with a quality unlike before: it seemed forced. Soon he was looking at the man’s back again. ‘You too, sir, have a former slave as a servant and like me a freed man.’
‘I do, and he is here by invitation.’
‘Joe told me on the way how he came into your service and why. It’s a tale which elevates you for what was a truly Christian act. He claims to know you well, but I doubt he knows everything about your past.’
Was it just a change of subject or both, an attempt to deflect the line Brazier was taking by introducing talk of Joe? It mattered not, it was time to get things out in the open and it had to start with Zachary.
‘Cottington Court is a place I have good reasons to avoid.’ The turn was slow, the whites of the eyes very obvious in his dark-skinned face. ‘In relating how I got my wound, I didn’t tell you where I was shot, by whom I do not know, but it would have been on the instructions of a fellow named Tulkington, who owns Cottington Court, both of which frequently crop up in the first of the journals. There’s another name, Samuel Lovell, who seems to have been a particularly close friend of Mr Venables.’
&nb
sp; ‘If you say it is so, sir.’
‘A man who, it is implied, disappeared without explanation, this being the cause of some grief.’ No reaction. ‘Zachary, I’m going to tell you the full story of how I got my wound, so desist from stirring a pot, which scarcely needs it, and come and listen.’
There was reluctance: he didn’t want to hear what Brazier had to say, which only increased his suppositions. To ensure nothing was missed out on this occasion, he began at the beginning, telling how he met Betsey in Jamaica and what he took to be mutual attraction, not forgetting to add the disapproval of her Aunt Sarah.
‘Whose name, incidentally, is Mrs Samuel Lovell.’
The face didn’t move, which had Brazier think such an ability to avoid reaction must be natural to anyone who’d been a slave, put in a situation where even a lifted eyebrow showing a hint of doubt could qualify you for the whip. In any event it told him nothing, so there was no choice but to carry on with his arrival in Deal, the mystery of Tulkington’s objections to his pursuit of his sister, the beating he’d suffered and subsequent events, partly already related. The only one which got a serious reaction was the sham wedding, while the tale of the groom from Cottington turning up at his door, needing to be accommodated, got another of Zachary’s bromides about being a good Christian.
‘Was it Christian? It would have been best if I’d turned him away for he’d still be alive.’ The carapace of indifference Zachary had worn broke down then, surprise being the cause. ‘A mob was set upon the house to burn out me and my companions. Luckily, we were not present, but Upton was. For reasons I cannot fathom he failed to wake to the clamour, nor the heat and smoke, one of which took his life. His body, unidentifiable, was found in the embers. So someone committed murder.’
Zachary crossed himself.
‘You do not enquire as to why I’m giving you all this detail?’ A very slow headshake. ‘You see, having been open with you, I’m hoping you’ll be open with me.’
‘I best see to them rabbits, sir.’
Wanting to press home his point, Brazier was thrown by the noisy approach of his old barge crew. It was not a subject to pursue in such company.
‘By all means.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Brazier was extremely sensitive to the behaviour of Zachary Colton: outwardly normal, he felt there was an undercurrent in his manner which hinted at disquiet. The noisy arrival of Dutchy and the others, which had curtailed his interrogation, had not abated, each being eager to talk and voice an opinion regarding what Hawker was up to, which seemed to increase in bloody conclusion the more they went on. Various bits of furniture put together − from both inside and out − provided a board off which they could eat. To this was added a stone flagon of cider, which had been fetched out from an underground store. Made by Zachary himself from his own apples, cloudy in appearance, it was tart in taste and suspected to be of ferocious strength.
When it came to easing tongues, nothing could have served better, so a great deal of reminiscing was in the air. If their old captain took little part in recalling their joint adventures, references to him were frequent and not always wholly complimentary. The lads spoke in a way they could never have done aboard ship, treating him as one they could gently guy, not the godlike creature a naval captain was supposed to be.
It was something to enjoy, the feeling of camaraderie, and was a mood not to be missed, even if this had not previously been the case with his barge crew or servant. More common among lieutenants, with the shared accommodation of the wardroom, it was rare with captains who occupied a solitary cabin at sea; the lack of company was not always compensated for by the amount of extra space or entertaining. It did happen ashore, mixing with officers of similar rank and above, though care had to be taken with tetchy admirals.
For Dutchy and the others it had not, in the past, manifested itself so openly, but there had been such a sense of shared sentiment aboard HMS Diomede. She had been a happy ship in the main, in which each man went about their duties with seeming satisfaction. There was, of course, the odd transgressor, usually an endemic offender, requiring to be hauled up and punished for some offence, almost always to do with drink. Edward Brazier had made sure to look carefully into the faces of his crew on such occasions: it was necessary they should approve what was being administered to the miscreant, to assure him it was deserved.
Harsh it might be, but as long as it was seen as fair it would never excite disquiet. Various actions were recalled and described to a seemingly attentive host, until the question arose as to Brazier’s soubriquet. If he was known as the Turk, it required explanation, which only he could provide.
‘It came to me first as a younker in the midshipman’s berth.’
‘Hellhole by all accounts,’ Dutchy interjected. ‘Not that I’d go near the place.’
‘I sense your colouring, sir, may have been part of the naming.’
‘Havn’a seen you with a growth afore, Capt’n,’ Cocky added, regardless of a mouth full of rabbit. Brazier rubbed his chin, feeling the thick stubble, which he knew would be as black as his hair. Cocky went on chewing and talking. ‘If yon Frenchie has seen you wi’ a beard like yon, you wouldn’a have had to fire a gun.’
‘Scary, right enough,’ came from Peddler.
‘Used to shave you, Captain,’ said Joe. ‘Couldn’t let you on deck, lest your chin was shining.’
‘I had a good look into your eyes, Joe,’ Brazier growled, with mock seriousness. ‘When you had the razor by my neck, I knew never to complain about the soup.’
A joke, it was readily taken as such, with many a reason advanced as to why Joe might have done all a favour by a quick bit of untoward pressure. The offer to shave him now or come morning was declined: Brazier was unsure if he might need a beard to move around without attracting attention, so it was best left to grow. Then it was back to recollection and on they went, describing the destruction of the Frenchman Cocky had mentioned. He’d called himself a privateer but was, in truth, no more than a pirate, one who’d been in league with the commanding admiral on the Jamaica Station. Both had set out to cheat the rest of the squadron of their rightful due in prize money.
Such talk had Brazier retreat into his own thoughts as the conversation flowed around him. The fact of Admiral Hassall’s actions, using the intelligence he received to alert his French partner to potential prizes, thus making many times more money than would come to him through his position of command − not an eighth but a half or more. He recalled the furious exchange when he challenged him, full of denials, which did nothing to convince, but vehement in the face of possible disgrace. Then there was Hassall’s demise, the strong supposition there had been foul play, as well as the knowledge that, despite he being entirely innocent of involvement, it was an act which might come to haunt him.
‘Blew the bugger to bits,’ Dutchy exclaimed, finishing his tale, before going on to tell Zachary of the treasure taken out of the Spanish vessel the Frenchman had captured. ‘A mint of money when valued.’
Even thinking about Hassall, Brazier had been aware Zachary was not wholly engaged in the talk. There was no adding tales of his own, usual in such conversations, which he must have had from his past, if not in bondage then as part of a regiment of foot caught up in fighting the Americans. What he did notice was the glances the man sent in his direction when he thought Brazier wasn’t looking, penetrating and fleeting, jerking his head away if he thought it had been noticed.
What was he thinking about? Those journals, what I asked, what I told him? Brazier could speculate endlessly and did so, rendering him semi-detached, which was easy since, having been involved in the events described, he knew most of what was being related. If it tended towards the boast, along with praise for him as captain, it came with good humour and many a mishap related, but more often the high points of sailing in a crack frigate in the West Indies, under blissful blue skies, which could change in a blink to fearful hurricanes.
‘Sleep,’
Brazier said eventually: the food was finished, the flagon empty and he was weary. ‘A pair of you have to be off at first light.’
‘Not much space to offer your friends,’ came as an apology.
‘Ye’ve never been aboard a man-o’-war, Zachary,’ Cocky hooted. ‘Then ye’d ken what nae space is like.’
‘You will occupy the cot, of course, sir.’ A look at a set of determined faces meant no postulating anything other was possible. ‘And I think it best we say prayers now, at this board.’
Everyone complied, even if Brazier doubted any of his old barge crew, or even Joe Lascelles, were deeply religious.
Up at cockcrow, Peddler and Dutchy were on their way to take cover behind the oak tree, with Joe and Cocky, the least conspicuous pair, making their way back to Deal, with instructions to seek accommodation from Saoirse Riordan, keep an ear to the ground and watch the slaughterhouse for signs of any untoward activity, only departing if they sensed a danger which would threaten their shipmates. Brazier was thus alone once more with Zachary, or would have been if his host had not said plain he had much work to do and left. The diaries had not been put away, just shifted so they could eat. There was no compunction in taking them up again, no thought he was prying.
The temptation to look over again what he read the day before he put aside, going right back to the very beginning of Venables’s entries, which he had too readily skipped through. Perhaps there he would find more telling clues to the man and his dealings with the Tulkingtons.
Up at a more normal hour, Henry went through his morning ritual of early coffee, being shaved by Grady and then breakfasting with his Aunt Sarah in attendance, the mood less frosty than the day before, albeit there was little conversation until Henry broached the subject of Harry Spafford.
‘I think the lack of his presence will help,’ Sarah Lovell concurred, when Henry made the point of his being barred from staying at Cottington. ‘He was a far from suitable guest, never mind a …’
Blood Will Out Page 15
