Blood Will Out

by David Donachie

  Edward Brazier was moving better. There was still pain, but a good measure of the stiffness, which had made it difficult, had eased and was continuing to do so. Many times he rose to walk about, stretching a left arm till it hurt until sense caused him to cease and make his way back to the sunlit bench. There he took up the earlier diary, to reread the Cottington passages, which produced little to enlighten him: nothing more could be gleaned than had been extracted from the first time.

  This drove him to look for earlier clues regarding Venables’ character, there being entries dating from the time he could begin to write in a clear hand. He was not a robust type, given there was much on youthful ailments. Then there was school, intermittently attended for two reasons: money being available to pay for lessons and the needs of the family when it came to getting in crops for subsequent sale. When he was able to partake of lessons, he wrote of his enjoyment when learning and his misery when dealing with his classmates, from which Brazier deduced he was not popular.

  That said and reading on, local friends and events were mentioned, games of cricket on the green, the various fairs which coincided with religious festivals and the fun to be had with bear-baiting and cockfighting. The rumbustious nature of elections were described with sheer enjoyment, though there was never much doubt about who would win the Cinque Port of Sandwich: always a senior naval officer, but such a sure candidate was still required to spend on food and drink, to entertain even those who lacked a vote, with a band provided too. It was the life of a class of folk on the rung below yeoman, but above the common labourer.

  There was mention of his father who was, by nature, reported as tyrannical and roundly condemned as a brute. Much kinder were his comments on his Dear Mother, who’d suffered, like her son, from violence in the home, stoically borne, which took him back to the passages already twice read. The second journal told him she’d been left to run the smallholding when he went off to America, the father no longer being alive. On return from the war, the workload had fallen to Zachary, especially after his Dear Mother passed away, this being the cause of much written lamentation. Later entries spoke of the contentment he found both in his religion as well as the company of Zachary, who shared his faith. Then it was failing health.

  Journals finished, he considered joining Zachary in his labours, pruning his apple trees of any produce which had been attacked by the numerous pests attracted to growing fruit. But the way he’d acted indoors in the morning did not encourage Brazier to think he’d be more forthcoming in the fresh air, not that he had given up any hope of extracting information. He turned his mind once more to ways of reversing matters with Henry Tulkington, the first conclusion not hard to reach: rescuing Elisabeth could not now be done, in any way he could fathom, without violence. The next fact was equally obvious: without Hawker and his men, Tulkington was vulnerable and, in reality, it was the leader not the followers who provided the protection. Take Hawker out of action and many things might be possible.

  Deduction was easy, acting upon it much more problematic. It was an axiom of warfare, be it on land or sea, you did not attack your enemy where he was strongest and he could call on numbers, which precluded Hawker’s own backyard of Deal. This led to thoughts of the farmhouse to which he’d taken … what? His own men and maybe Dan Spafford and his crew? There was no way of telling from where he was sitting, but he did know he had little time for them. Whichever way he turned in search of a solution, one fact always intruded, his shortage of the kind of strength he needed. Spafford was Tulkington’s enemy, which should have meant anyone so inclined was a potential ally, but it was the same lot he’d been forced to take with him to Cottington and nothing he’d observed hinted at trust.

  Dutchy had insisted no approach could be made in daylight without being seen a goodly distance away, so surprise would be impossible, which left the night. Given the failures of his previous excursions, it was not a notion to readily appeal except in one sense: there was no alternative, the other choice being to do nothing, which meant going to see for himself how the land lay, in pain or not. Anything attempted would have to set off from Zachary’s. Should he tell his host or leave him in the dark, a thought which caused Brazier to wonder at himself: he was proposing to seek information from him, while at the same time contemplating concealment of what he might be about to do.

  Seeing his Good Samaritan coming in from the orchard, tellingly without the habitual smile, he picked up the relevant book so as to have it open at what was now a well-thumbed page. There was, once more, a lack of eye contact, which would not serve, obliging him to press. Either information would be provided or he would receive a blank refusal.

  ‘Zachary.’

  He was reluctant to respond but he did stop. ‘Sir?’

  ‘I need your help.’ The eyes went to the journal, open in Brazier’s hand, the point obvious. ‘I have to rescue someone and I’m not sure it can be done without I know more of the late Mr Venables and his relationship with a certain person residing at Cottington Court.’

  ‘And if I say I cannot talk of him, sir?’

  ‘I would find it hard to believe.’ The diary was lifted up to eye height. ‘Perhaps if I was to read to you some of the entries, it might help.’

  ‘I’d prefer readings from the Bible, sir,’ came with a hint of forward movement.

  Brazier ignored it, challenging Zachary to walk on past, which he could not do, his curiosity overcoming his disinclination to engage. He listened as the first meetings, then the growing friendship were described, the days spent together on country rides, added to the deepening affection, looking Zachary in the eye when he finished.

  ‘They were extremely close and it’s chronicled here. Yet Dear Sam went off without a word of farewell. Let me read the passage to you.’

  Which he did, pausing to look up at the end of each sentence, finishing with the last word of Venables about saying prayers, while hoping there was no need.

  ‘What do you take from such an entry?’ Nothing, not even a shrug, which had Brazier think he was a man to avoid playing cards with. ‘I will tell you what was vouchsafed to me by the lady I’m intent on marrying. Samuel Lovell’s wife says no more than her husband rode out one day, seemingly in good spirits, never to return. This was on the very same day he arranged to meet his friend for some kind of special outing. Then the final entry. What was it that Mr Venables feared?’

  ‘Look to the date, sir. How would I know?’

  ‘I don’t say you were around when these events took place. What I wonder is this. Did the man with whom you shared this place ever speak to you of it, the man who had no desire to go near Cottington Court, the very place where I was shot?’

  ‘He named it as the devil’s lair, the home of Beelzebub. Knowing such a thing, no man would risk his soul by going close.’

  ‘He never gave you the real reason?’

  ‘Is Satan not real enough, sir?’

  ‘To some but not to me. Did he add something more?’

  ‘He did, on the understanding I would speak of it to no one. And sir, much as I respect you, I will not break such an oath.’

  ‘Which in normal circumstances I would admire.’

  ‘Not now?’

  ‘I shall ask no more, Zachary, and forgive me for pressing you, not least because I have a deep suspicion I owe you my life.’

  A glance to the heavens, with the sun going down, was enough to lay the praise where Zachary was sure it lay. ‘Your companions should return soon. I’ll go and bank up the fire.’

  It was not an admission but a mistake and one Henry should have seen as possible. He had failed to note the person who took in the post was Grady. Since letters had to be paid for on receipt, money would only be forthcoming if the addressee was resident at the house. Thus, he knew of the two letters addressed to his master’s sister, including the most recent, but had no idea they had been kept from her. Therefore, his remark, delivered to Elisabeth while helping her to disrobe when she came in from her
morning walk, was entirely innocent in wondering if Mr Dirley, whom he remembered fondly from her father’s day, was in good health. The reply threw him slightly.

  ‘Why are you asking me?’

  The servant knew immediately he had misspoken. Despite his years of service and innate discretion, he could not avoid a cast of the eyes, which indicated his discomfort. This caused Elisabeth to look in rapid succession towards both the staircase and the doors off the hallway. Seeing no one, her voice dropped to a whisper.

  ‘Is there something you’re trying to tell me?’

  ‘No, Miss Elisabeth.’

  Yet he pointedly glanced towards the hall table on which post would be left for later distribution. Holding Grady’s eye was difficult when he was busy avoiding hers, but there was some residual spark in the man, a touch of rebellion surfacing, which had him say in a sonorous tone,

  ‘I would be grateful if you would send him my best wishes, when you reply.’

  The combination allowed her to make the connection. A reply clearly meant there had to be incoming correspondence, obviously something she’d never seen. Elisabeth had never collected her own mail, waiting for it to be brought to her and besides, it had not been a regular daily occurrence, though it occurred to her now she’d had none for some time.

  Heart beating like a kettle drum, Elisabeth replied, ‘I most certainly shall.’

  ‘Shall what?’ Sarah Lovell enquired as she came down the stairs, not in any demanding way, more a general query.

  ‘Keep an eye on the weather, Aunt Sarah,’ was desperate and sounded feeble to her niece, yet it needed to be carried through. ‘This spell of good weather is not going to last.’

  ‘Will there be anything else, Miss Elisabeth?’

  ‘Nothing, Grady. And thank you for your concern.’

  Sarah Lovell was frowning, the look which went with it aimed at Grady, not her. This was followed by a hand held up, indicating she should wait, which lasted until he went through the door to the servant quarters.

  ‘My dear,’ was very quiet. ‘I think you should say to Grady to have a care how he addresses you. Indeed, it should be made plain to all the servants.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘I think Henry would not wish to see you spoken of in such a manner.’ Eyes were raised towards the ceiling, so what was implied was obvious. ‘After all, you have not been Miss Elisabeth for a very long time.’

  If the reply was mischievous, and it was, there was nothing in Elisabeth’s expression to hint at levity. ‘Are you suggesting he addresses me as Mrs Langridge?’

  ‘You know I don’t mean anything of the sort.’

  ‘Then if you refer to whom I suspect, you tell them. I’m sure it will do wonders for the esteem in which you’re held.’

  Elisabeth didn’t wait to enjoy her aunt’s discomfort; the servants disliked her and she knew it, though it had to be said, in her world, being popular with those below stairs did not come as a recommendation, quite the reverse. Even if she’d wanted to drive the point home, the need to be alone took precedence, to wonder if there had indeed been a letter from her Uncle Dirley and if there had, what it contained. If it was being kept from her it could only be for one reason: Henry’s desire to cut her off from outside contact. Not that realisation solved the dilemma of what to do about it.

  She would have been even more concerned if she’d been looking over her brother’s shoulders later in the day, reading the letter he was writing to Dirley, informing him Elisabeth and her new husband had decided to visit Paris and had taken the Dover cartel to Calais …

  As of this moment I have no idea of their itinerary, for there was much talk of hiring a coach and visiting various places of interest on the way, for it turns out Mr Spafford has a bent for the history of battles, the sites of which litter northern France and the Low Countries. No doubt they will write to me when they finally reach Paris and advise me of where they’ve decided to stay. Until then, Uncle Dirley, I shall hold on to your letter, to forward it when the time comes.

  I am, as ever, your loving nephew,

  Henry, as he signed it, knew it would only hold Dirley for a while, but hold him off he must. The time would come for the truth, but not just yet. Then it would be fitting he be reminded of his place in the scheme of things and made aware of who was in charge.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Dutchy made himself small when he saw Hawker approaching along the road from Deal, riding at no great pace, mounted himself and pulling along a pair of laden packhorses. He had to hope Peddler, no longer with him, caught sight of him too. He’d gone to get a closer look at the farmhouse by merely strolling past it, showing no particular interest, acting as if he was heading somewhere else, and, for once, he was not to be dissuaded or told to desist by his one-time coxswain.

  ‘The cove you say dropped off milk and eggs didn’t set off any bells, so I won’t either. If I make bold, it should serve, an’ ’part from that, I’m sick of sitting still and owt going off.’

  It produced no alarms: there had been no men guarding an approach outside and it seemed those inside were content to stay there. Yet if he came back the same way, then he’d walk smack into the bugger. Would Hawker mark him if he did? Dutchy couldn’t be sure and he had no idea what to do about it. The notion he might come out from his cover and take on Hawker was not to be considered: as he got closer the butt of the pistol sticking out of a saddle holster was plain to see.

  Heart in mouth he watched Hawker all the way to the farmhouse door, saw him haul out his pistol and dismount, to then rap loudly for entry. When it swung open, he disappeared inside, a couple of his men soon sent out to unload the pack animals. This done, they led all three away to he knew not where, somewhere out of his field of vision. They returned a short while later, going back indoors, with as yet no sign of Peddler, which made the worry greater. A look at the sky didn’t tell Dutchy the actual time, but the long shadow running from his oak tree hiding place towards the shoreline was proof enough: the day was close to ending. It also told him, with a clear sky, there was going to be a moon, but probably not till he was well clear.

  The smell hit Hawker’s nostrils even before he entered the farmhouse. Doors and windows having been closed all day and no one venturing out, with the sun playing on the thatched roof and red-brick walls, had made the interior warm and stuffy. Thus, the odour of rotting humanity had built up to a powerful stench, one less noticed by those left behind. The next thing observed by Dutchy was a procession of three sackcloth bundles being brought out and carried off by half a dozen men, again these taken out of his eye line.

  It was Peddler, hidden in some trees on the far side, who saw them being taken to one of the barns, old and in need of repair, the faces of those carrying them screwed up with disgust. They were not out of sight for long, soon heading back to the house. Impulse made him move while they were still in the open with their backs to him. He skipped silently across the long uncut grass to get behind the barn, only creeping round to slip through one of the double doors when Hawker’s men were back inside, which was pulled to just enough to let in some light.

  The smell had the same effect on him as it had on Hawker, bringing on a curse, while the trio of horses were a surprise. For a moment he stood stock-still lest they react, which proved unnecessary since they were too busy munching hay to give him even a look. Coming closer he saw a saddle on a rail, with the tack for all three hanging on a hook. One mount, the largest, turned her head to look at him but not for long; she was back to feeding.

  Gingerly, having approached the piles of sackcloth, he uncovered his first bundle, to reveal the waxy, stiff face of Harry Spafford, previously only seen briefly in lantern light. But there could be no mistaking the fair hair as well as the round hole surrounded by black powder trace on his forehead. The other two were easier to identify as Trotter and old man Spafford. The thud, as one of the horses kicked the wood of the barn wall, nearly had Peddler jumping out of his skin.

&
nbsp; Hurriedly he recovered the faces, sidled back to the door and opening it a shade more, peered out to see the way was clear. Making ‘bold’ as he would call it, ignoring the fact the previously closed windows were now wide open, he strode out like a man without a care in the world to retrace his earlier footsteps. What Dutchy saw nearly brought on an apoplexy, Peddler passing the front door with lips pursed, as though he was whistling a tune.

  There was true admiration as he kept going, past the tree behind which he knew his mate was hiding, the call to say he was making for Zachary’s place loud enough for him to hear but no one else. By the time the light had faded enough to allow Dutchy to move, Peddler was back with his old captain and telling his tale.

  ‘Had me shitting roundshot,’ was Dutchy’s response, when he finally joined them, a remark which got a chuckle from Zachary, once more preparing food. After being told what Peddler had found, Dutchy gave an account of his day, which did not amount to anything. No one had come out of the farmhouse and there was only Hawker’s arrival to cause comment.

  ‘Can we find our way back there in the moonlight?’ Brazier asked.

  ‘Why would we want to?’

  ‘The way I see it, we’ve been gifted a chance to give Hawker a scare. More than that, something to worry about.’

  Clearly previously mooted to Peddler, Dutchy was of the opinion enough risks had been taken for one day.

  ‘You don’t know what I have in mind.’

  ‘I can guess, Capt’n, an’ am I allowed to say, you ain’t fully fit?’

  ‘I won’t be doing any lifting, I promise.’

  ‘Lifting?’

  Brazier’s smile, through his thickening stubble, did little to reassure Dutchy. ‘I’m guessing one of the horses in the barn Peddler found is Hawker’s.’

  This being confirmed, as well as the nature of the other pair, led to the obvious question: what does it mean? It turned out to be rhetorical as Brazier answered himself.