The word husband died in the face of Henry’s expression, not angry as such but more a look to dare her to say it. In truth it was performance; she had accepted his explanation for the sod’s absence and this was all that mattered.
‘I daresay the servants are wondering what has become of him.’
‘They will be relieved not to be the subject of his outrageous demands.’
‘Then you may ease their minds.’
His thinking moved on to the letter from his uncle and the possibility of what his aunt might be able to bring to the problem. She was vocal in her dislike of his presence as being something which, if his illegitimacy required to be explained, would bring disapproval on the family. Wondering if she might in some way deflect Dirley, the door opened so Grady could deliver the message his coach was ready.
It was a subject kept in mind all the way into Deal. The first question Henry asked himself was this: could he dispense with his uncle’s services? The conclusion was negative, at least in the immediate future, which led to speculation on doing so over time and the drawbacks were manifest. All the work carried out by Dirley could only be taken over by himself, there being no one else he could trust, while it would take a great deal of time, and indeed might be impossible, to find a replacement. The burden this would place upon his comfortable way of life was not something to contemplate with much happy anticipation.
His father had foreseen the possibility of Dirley no longer being able to function: an older half-brother could be expected to die ahead of himself, the shock being it had turned out to be the reverse. Henry found the documents put in place for what had been expected. These passed total control of the law chambers, which Dirley ran, back to the Tulkington family, who’d financed their creation. This ensured any evidence of illegal activity would remain secret. Acton’s last will and testament, the one which subsequently mattered, bequeathed the same to Henry.
It was a thought to which he had given consideration, but not in a pressing sense. Yet it was being thrown into stark relief now: at some time in the future it might devolve upon him and suddenly. If his father had expired of a seizure, in what looked like rude good health, who was to say it was not possible for those who shared his bloodline to fall victim to the same malaise? It was a mirror image of the problem with John Hawker and highlighted something he’d known but declined to act upon because everything seemed to be progressing so smoothly: he was running his affairs on a legacy at both ends, which − long term and present glitches notwithstanding − could not continue. At some time there would have to be in place new people and they would be far from easy to find.
It was a fact, even if it was not something he hankered after, he would eventually have to take a wife and perhaps contemplate producing a family of his own, children to whom he could pass on what had been left to him. Yet when such a notion surfaced it brought forth in abundance the complications. Any woman who became his wife would have to be blessed with one of two qualities: either the ability to work with him or to be the type so self-possessed they took no interest in the activities of their spouse.
Although he could not be sure, it seemed as if his own mother had been of the latter variety, although she had pronounced views on manners as well as interests of her own, which she pursued. If his father could find a suitable bride, surely so could he, the only problem being his social contacts did not often include meeting the opposite sex.
Lost in these thoughts, he realised the coach was no longer moving: it was outside the Lodge and stationary, with him having no idea of how long this had lasted. Annoyance at his own lack of awareness was naturally taken out on his coachmen for failing to alert him, remonstrations taken stoically by a pair who would see no alternative. There was no desire to surrender, through pride, a far from arduous and well-remunerated position, even if their master was given to irascibility.
Henry was in just such a state now and thus, on entry, in the wrong mood for the encounter he had arranged. His irritation was conveyed to the club servants who disrobed him, likewise the cast of his features when he was spotted by the man he’d come to meet. The look of unease, allied to the guarded wording with which he was greeted, obliged him to both compose himself and apologise.
‘I have had a trying morning, Rudd.’ A flat hand tapped his chest. ‘I fear a temporary weakness in the lungs from being out in the chill air the night before last.’
This brought a concerned look to the physician’s face, immediately followed by words of commiseration and an offer of his services, waved away as unnecessary.
‘Let us find a place to sit and talk.’
‘Might I suggest a tot of brandy, Henry, it can be most efficacious to the chest.’
‘As ever, your advice is sound.’
A corner of the room was occupied, quiet at this time of day, the drink ordered for both, given Rudd was not one to pass up on the opportunity and, once served, it was possible to have a discreet conversation, the first point being Henry was not here on his own behalf.
‘As you know, my sister is of a nervous disposition.’
‘As you described it the last time we met, it is certainly so. I must ask if the means to calm her more extreme moods was effective. The apothecary assured me it would be so.’
‘The apothecary?’ Henry asked, unable to keep surprise out of his tone. Responded to by an ‘Of course’ did nothing to ease his discomfort.
‘I was under the impression you mixed for yourself.’
Rudd uttered a humourless laugh. ‘Good Lord, no. Each to his own, I say. While I see to the problem, if there’s remedies to be provided, outside a good bleed, then they are prepared by the apothecary.’
‘The recipient named?’
‘Not always. Why do you ask?’
‘Is it not obvious? I would not want it getting around Elisabeth is, how may I put it, unsound?’
‘You gave the impression her problem was temporary, to do with an extreme reaction to the regular female affliction.’ Sage nods were exchanged on a subject it would be improper to speak of in any detail. ‘Are you saying it is more?’
‘I fear it may be, which is why I asked you to meet me today. I’m wondering what to do if a thing, which seemed momentary, turns out to be …’
‘A cause for ongoing concern,’ Rudd pronounced in a grave tone, finishing Henry’s sentence, then his own brandy.
‘It troubles me to even mention such a possibility, but to deny it would fly in the face of what I see from day to day.’
‘Perhaps if I were to attend upon her.’
‘This I suggested, only to send her into a frenzy. She will not hear of it.’
‘Then I suggest a repeat of what sufficed previously, discretely acquired of course.’
‘Most grateful. But I do wonder if her affliction might become enduring and, if it should be so, what to do about it.’
‘A matter of grave concern.’
‘My sister’s welfare guides my every act. I’m led to believe, properly cared for, patients may recover their equilibrium. But the obvious question arises, will this be possible in our home setting?’
‘I’m obliged to enquire as to what you think may have brought this about. I doubt the original given reasons would explain it.’
‘I suspect the loss of her husband to be the root cause.’ Sensing doubt, given the lapse in time, Henry was quick to add, ‘They were so very close, Dr Rudd, enamoured of each other since childhood. It could be said they strolled into their nuptials, so inevitable it would be they should marry. They had my heartfelt blessing, of course.’
‘No sign previously?’
‘It has only manifested itself on coming home. I enquired of my Aunt Sarah, whom I asked to go out and bring Elisabeth home, if she could recall any incident which would point to what we are dealing with now and her answer was an emphatic no. I suspect, while still in Jamaica, Elisabeth would have been surrounded by memories of their shared existence as husband and wife. Here, in the grounds of our e
state, she recalls not such things, but does the games they played as children.’
Rudd made a cathedral of his hands, then tucked them under his chin. The ‘Hmm’, he uttered, like the pose, Henry saw as affectation. The man had no idea but must pretend otherwise.
‘Elisabeth walks every day,’ Henry added, ‘for in excess of two hours.’
‘Surely this is a good thing?’
‘One would think so, but her perambulations take her past the very places where they cavorted as children, most often by the lake. I, of course, pray this to be a passing affair. What I want to know is, what can be done if it’s not? More tellingly, what would be the solution if her condition deteriorates?’
The response was slow in coming; Rudd was taking the matter seriously, which pleased Henry: there was no question of him failing to convince. ‘There are places where people in mental distress can be accommodated.’
‘A fount of horror stories.’
‘Not all are bad. I agree there are mere holding pens for the tormented and terrible they are. But some of those are licensed to provide care and counselling, the aim being to seek to return their patients to a normal state of mind and discharge them back to their homes.’ The keen look Henry was giving Rudd was an invitation to continue. ‘The nearest house operating in this way, so I’m told, is in our own county of Kent, at West Malling.’
‘You do not know of it?’
‘I have had no occasion to.’
‘There must be cases locally who require such treatment?’
Rudd actually laughed, which plainly did not please Henry and had him try and cover it with an unconvincing cough.
‘I apologise, but this is Deal. A walk along the strand and contact with the beach folk would have you wonder if there is sanity at all in the town. In amongst such a community anything of a mental disability would be hard to discern. The common sign of disorder manifests itself in drunkenness and violence. How could you note disorder with the boatmen or fishwives? They live by bestial behaviour and riot.’
‘I assume their being poor has a bearing?’
Henry posited this in a wry tone. He carried no great affection for the denizens of the beach, the men who worked the hoys and wherries, the cutters and hovelling boats, who lived a precarious life. But Rudd was being conceited, which was not a trait he ever applied to himself.
‘It may be so,’ was a guarded medical admission. ‘But the parish officers have the right to take up people for confinement.’
‘And they can send them to this institution in West Malling?’
‘Only should it prove necessary. For the assurance of acceptance, the opinion of two physicians would be helpful, though only one is required. I assume you would be prepared to provide the funds to secure the best of treatment, plus the avoidance of common accommodation, but I must alert you to the fact of its expense.’
‘No expense would be too great to see Elisabeth restored, Dr Rudd.’ Henry declared as he stood up. ‘Let us hope my concerns are overstated and my sister returns to settled behaviour.’
‘Of course,’ Rudd said, rising likewise.
‘But the remedy with which you armed me before. I would wish to have it to hand, in case of need.’
‘I will have it made up. Would you wish me to send it over to Cottington?’
‘No. I don’t sense any need to rush. I will pick it up from you here, at your convenience, if it suits.’
The Henry Tulkington who emerged was not the irascible fellow who’d entered the Lodge. For one thing, he was smiling, as well as indicating he would walk. The Three Kings was not very far off and that was where this Cottin fellow was staying. It would be a good idea to get a look at him, to put a face to the office, but not to engage in conversation. It came as a disappointment to find him out. Garlick, however, was very forthcoming to a caller as prominent as he about the nature of the fellow and what he got up to.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Henry’s good mood, which lasted all the way to the slaughterhouse, was lifted even more by the news of the successful and discreet transfer of the Spafford gang to their farmhouse. The eventual demise of Dan Spafford was even better, it being a solution to a niggling problem, though he was required to insist Hawker be patient in the matter of rotting cadavers.
‘The lads will be askin’ to bury the bodies if’n we don’t act quick.’
‘Surely they’re inured to the smell, John?’ was the less than satisfying reply, as Tulkington took a shot at being humorous. ‘Lord knows how they’d be troubled, given they can be more than ripe themselves.’
There was no point in Hawker even hinting at what he thought. Tulkington was ignorant of the men he was denigrating, another mark against him compared to his pa. Acton, though happy to let Hawker command them, had taken the trouble to get to know those who, at one remove, did his bidding. As for the bodies, his employer was never going to be near enough to the smell to be troubled by it.
‘I still want to be sure the way is clear.’
‘This sheriff is one sod on his own, not the Excise and them we make dance to our will.’
‘Then why did he depart Deal by horse yesterday and ride to Dover?’
‘Did he so?’ was all Hawker could say in response.
‘Does it occur to you he could be visiting them to seek out information?’
‘I’s at a loss to know what they could tell him.’
‘We must wait till we’re sure he’s gone. He can’t stay forever but it would be an idea to know of his movements while he’s here.’
‘I can have him trailed, just like Brazier.’
‘Make it so, John.’
Hawker used the local waifs as his eyes and ears, lads who would readily do his bidding, with no shortage willing. Living in an anchorage, with hundreds of vessels coming and going, Deal had dozens of brats living on the streets, while the girls who matched their way of life made their living by selling their bodies. Stunted in growth, immoral to the core, the boys were tenacious survivors, the offspring of uncaring parents, local whores brought to childbirth by visiting sailors or runaways from the countryside around.
Sleeping in doorways or the cemetery of St George’s, they spent most of the day grubbing for or stealing food, trying to pick the pockets of sailors just discharged and drinking gin, if they could filch the means to buy it. There lay the means by which Hawker could employ them, the task of late to keep an eye on a certain naval captain, reporting back on who visited Quebec House, to where he went and to whom he spoke, all for a flask of their chosen spirit. Adding Cottin presented little difficulty, as long as he was in the confines of the town.
‘Now what of Brazier?’
‘Far as I know, there’s been no sign for the last two days.’
‘Is there a way he could avoid being spotted?’
‘Not from the buggers I have on his tail. They’re like rats, everywhere but not seen. Reckon he’s either gone to meet his maker or you’ve seen him off at last.’
Tulkington departed, cheered by what he’d heard, leaving John Hawker in a very different mood. He’d been obliged to lie, though it was not the telling which rankled, but the reminder of having been let down by those very same lot of filthy tykes he’d just been praising. One of them, a bit of a ringleader called Danny, probably full of gin, had failed to see Brazier leaving Quebec House on the evening of the riot. Hawker was still to catch hold of Danny, but a few of his mates had got the clouts he deserved in lieu, which did little to moderate his fury.
The way he had been dragged from Cottington in the dark still festered like an itch he couldn’t scratch, so the desire to avenge it was more than just strong. He could recall every fall, feel every bruise from the rocks he’d been hauled over and hear in his mind each taunt from Brazier’s tars, voices in the dark with no faces clear. Even in distress he had resolved they would pay with their lives and said so, only to be barred from his revenge by Henry Tulkington.
The men he led were of no consequence, but
Edward Brazier was a post captain in the King’s Navy. The murder of such a worthy would not pass without stirring up real trouble, maybe even an incursion by the military. It would certainly cause concern amongst those who turned a blind eye to the smuggling trade. They would rush to cover their own backs and who knew what they’d be prepared to sacrifice?
Hawker had ignored him. Just ahead of the mob he’d helped to stir up, with four of his most trusted men armed with clubs, he’d broken into Quebec House only to find the place empty, barring one cove asleep on the top floor, who’d been clubbed unconscious. If Brazier was gone, unless he was dead, it was, for John Hawker, unfinished business and hatred did not blind him to the nature of his enemy: the bastard had proved hard to shift before, so it had to be concluded he was not one to give up in seeking to get to Tulkington’s sister if he still had breath in his body.
On his rounds of the town, he made a point of finding his sewer rats, dispensing the coins needed to provide a flask of gin, telling them to keep a sharp eye out for Brazier still and Cottin now. Then it was on to his real tasks, dropping into various places to confirm orders and hint they’d soon be fulfilled, examine a whole raft of accounts and calculate what was owed to the government, with a quick check to ensure the sums added up.
In his travels John Hawker was ever accosted by locals who wanted him to be aware of their respect. There was also the fact he was a fount of knowledge regarding what was going on in the town, though he was generally guarded in what he passed on, mostly hints which would work to his advantage. He had a good ear too, being trusted, for any hints some folk might be planning a run to France for contraband. Later in the day, he was going to have to go back to Spafford’s farmhouse and ensure things were in order, taking food as well, which required to be bought and part of it would have to go to the captives.
‘Name of Christ,’ he swore. ‘Feedin’ the sods instead of stopping their gobs with brine.’
Blood Will Out Page 16
