Blood Will Out

by David Donachie

  ‘Getting near too dark to see the road clear, your honour.’

  It being lined with trees in leaf, Peddler’s observation was acknowledged, but he reckoned on there being not far to go, while the horse pulling the cart had keener eyesight than any human. They’d come by a circuitous route, aiming for the fields to the west of the town, where root vegetables were the crop, still grown in feudal strips. Visibility would be restored when they emerged to clear and moonlit skies. At twilight, those tending their patch would cease to work and head back to their hearths. Out of the arc of activity centred on the Lower Valley Road, they would be left with a view of the lights of the town, sat in darkness, only moving to act when those lights were extinguished.

  Given the number of places dispensing drink and carnal gratification, added to the endless supply of visiting merchant seaman, not to forget inhabitants who were great topers themselves, Deal was a town to stay up later than most. Having got to where Brazier wanted them to be, he and Peddler got off the box, the others dismounted and they sat away from the cart, for the rosemary was only so effective in countering the smell. His old barge crew once more talked of old times and adventures or, more often of misadventures, three of them being footloose. Dutchy had a wife and family in a house on the Fal Estuary at Restronguet Point and had taken to boat repairing once he was paid off from HMS Diomede. All had come home with a decent sum from the recapture of the Spanish plate ship, taken back from the French villain who’d been in league with Admiral Hassall.

  It was money spent on pleasure by Peddler and Cocky, while Dutchy’s had been spread over an extended and needy family. Joe Lascelles, in a strange land, with an even odder climate, had husbanded his until, settled enough, he could seek employment. There was a degree of embarrassment for Brazier when the subject came up: a naval captain made many multiples of what was paid to common seamen in prize money, in his case enough to never have to be concerned about being out of funds again, a comparison not mentioned. He was paying them to be here now, which, with his day-to-day coin getting low, would need to be addressed.

  To the question of another ship, which came up eventually and was gently pursued, their old commander could only demur, at the same time wondering what they knew of the circumstances surrounding the death of Admiral Hassall. It was a truth well acknowledged nothing could be kept secret from the lower deck: they could hear a whisper through six inches of oak. It was also true they’d have a care with whom they shared anything, and it would certainly not be raised in Brazier’s presence. Cheering was the reassurance, as soon as he had another command, they would seek to join him.

  ‘If you’d have us, your honour,’ Peddler suggested, only half-joking.

  ‘How could I expect to manage without you?’

  ‘Ye’d hae a struggle, right enough,’ Cocky hooted.

  In time the lights began to dim, first those in the houses, obliged by the municipality to keep going a candle in a first-floor window to illuminate the street below. Unheard would be a watchman doing his rounds, telling the citizens the duty was no longer required. This left the glow of other lights, torches and the much bigger ship-sized lanterns at the entrances to the various places of entertainment. In time they too were extinguished as Deal went to bed and the visiting sailors either returned to their vessel, passed out in a doorway, or bedded a whore.

  The cart was slowly manoeuvred round the growing strips to get as close to St George’s churchyard as possible, in silence because there were several free-standing and substantial houses on the town periphery, each with dogs set to warn of intruders. An occasional bark was soon taken up by other canines, to crescendo and then die down, the common sound of the night which should cause no alarm.

  The first task was to clear the graveyard of those who used it as a place to sleep, the gin-addicted urchins. Brazier wanted them rousted out with threats of violence, though he was hoping none would be required: the waifs were there through circumstances not choice. Also, it had to be carried out without too much noise: shouting and yelling would alert those on the nearside of the Lower Valley Road, though most were places of business not dwellings.

  Bandanas were used to hide faces, even Joe’s, with rough staves from Zachary’s woodpile employed to threaten a group of ragamuffins quite used to being harried. They also had a grapevine which warned of trouble, so youngsters in their dozens fled at the first sign of disturbance; in such a precarious existence it was a group always at risk from people sick of their activities, who would take up cudgels from time to time in an attempt to curb what they brought to the town: petty thieving and the dipping of pockets.

  Some could not be stirred, too intoxicated on brain-rotting home-made gin, bought from the naval widows of Middle Street, to react to the whispers of alarm rippling through the graveyard, or even a sharp kick from the more alert. Given they lay against tombstones, in the dark and unseen, and with only the sound of their snuffling or snoring placing their presence, it was held they could safely be left to their slumbers so the unloading of the cart could proceed without disturbance.

  Heavy work on a mild night, it left Brazier’s tars sweating as the three bodies were placed in a circle, with much effort given their rigidity, as if sat down for a conflab. Care was taken to ensure they stayed upright and didn’t fall over. Hawker’s horse, tack removed, and one of the pack animals he’d led to the Spafford farmhouse, were to be let loose to graze on the way back, only Bonnie and the one pulling the cart being taken all the way, the latter to be freed once the loaned cart was returned.

  Once clear of the vegetable plots, it was best to wait for the dawn: Brazier, with cart now empty, reckoned it safe to get going again in daylight. Waiting naturally engendered speculation of what would happen on the discovery of the bodies, unaware it had already taken place. The urchins, creeping back to the graveyard had followed their noses to discover what had been left. Accustomed to being accused of every crime in creation, they did not linger and nor did they abandon their comatose fellows. Well before cockcrow they were all long gone, seeking shelter elsewhere so, come the day, they could plead ignorance.

  Brazier and his party returned to Zachary’s smallholding mid-morning, after a second night out, to take a breakfast of oats and milk before finding a spot in which to sleep. The last to close his eyes was Edward Brazier, he having too active a mind for immediate slumber, with two things on which to ponder: what would be the result of his night-time deeds and to think on was to follow. When he did go under, it was while wondering how Betsey was faring, mixed with images of their shared future.

  She too had encountered trouble getting to sleep, imagining, or was it hoping, the post-chaise, which would depart Dover in the morning to come through for a pickup in Deal, would be carrying her letter to Dirley, while wondering how he would react.

  Given the graveyard provided a route through to the various vegetable strips, discovery came as soon as it was light enough to see and by more than one person, not that any alert was immediately forthcoming. A town steeped in wrongdoing, with an inbuilt distrust of the magistracy, no citizen, like the urchins who’d crept back only to flee again, wished to be the one to let it be known they were even in the vicinity. It took one upright fellow, making a very early morning visit to lay flowers on the grave of his recently deceased wife, a duty regularly carried out prior to his working day, to react to the sight of the first body. Harry Spafford had been sat up against a headstone, his eyes wide and staring and the hole in his forehead obvious as the cause of death.

  Within an hour the verdant green space, dotted with granite sarcophagi and headstones, was full of the curious, come to gaze at what was held to be a rare phenomenon, one not to be missed, with the town watchmen seeking to keep them from touching the bloated bodies or seeking to take souvenirs. For every expression of horror, there was another kind of attendee, ghouls who revelled in the sight and smell of death. Identification took no time at all in the case of the Spaffords, both being well known: Harry for h
is debaucheries, the father for his foolish and costly attempts at filial reform.

  Fewer were sure about Daisy Trotter, as unlovely in death as he had been in life, an object of much interest for the number of wounds, each having wept blood to stain his clothing. Yet there were some who knew him well: the denizens of Basil the Bulgar’s Molly-house, which had been his place of choice when in Deal, who may have wished to cry at the sight if discretion in the face of the mass of citizenry had not prevented them.

  Soon lining up to gaze were the leading citizens of the town, the foremost being Sidney Cavell, who was at a total loss as to what to do next. Death was not uncommon in the world he inhabited, violent ones included, but a trio of obvious murders lying in plain sight was beyond his ability to process. Phineas Tooke was in a state of utter flap, a nosegay pressed against his face, fussing about how Deal would be perceived when this atrocity became widely known, which it must.

  Tobias Sowerby was steadier and he was also silent, even if his thoughts were in turmoil. Dan Spafford had robbed one of his carters of Henry Tulkington’s contraband tea. Harry had last been seen, and this by half the town, pleading and disappearing into the slaughterhouse with John Hawker’s grip on his collar. The third corpse he knew nothing of, but given the company in which it had been left, it had to be connected to the very same robbery. He had no illusions about Henry Tulkington and his propensity for action against those who threatened his interests, but this went beyond anything he could countenance. Sowerby didn’t have to be told of the need to keep the operations in which he was involved low-key. Now, looking around the faces of those who ran the municipality, all of whom knew something, he was wondering at what connections were being made behind their worried frowns.

  Added to this was the buzz of conversation amongst those who’d been pushed back by the watchmen. They speculated on how many had either seen or heard what Hawker had done with young Spafford, who, when marched through the town by Hawker, must have wondered why he was still in one piece and not dead from a gunshot, given the reputation of the man who’d collared him. He surely should have been cut up and stuck in a barrel marked pork.

  ‘Has the undertaker been sent for?’ Cavell demanded.

  ‘I was wondering if a physician should be called first,’ Tooke flustered. ‘Surely it is proper to certify death first?’

  ‘What certification do we need?’ Cavell cried, his exasperation obvious. ‘Even you can see they’re dead. Somebody call an undertaker, we must get them out of sight.’

  ‘And not killed here,’ Sowerby added. Cavell spun to look at him, his face showing this obvious fact had not occurred. ‘There’s no blood on the ground and, by the smell, they have been dead for days.’

  ‘What are you saying, Tobias?’

  ‘Just that, Sidney, but I suggest they are put somewhere away from the common gaze, before every resident of the town has come to look. As to certification, it can be done later.’

  The silence which fell was unnerving, the cause soon appearing. John Hawker strode into the graveyard in a manner to tell all he expected the crowd to part like the Red Sea, and they did. A nod was given to the worthies, but nothing was said as he stood in the middle of the circle of death and examined what lay before him while it was telling no one asked him for an opinion. To appear indifferent while inwardly seething took every ounce of his self-control. He alone knew who’d done this and why but to say anything was out of the question. Eventually it was Sowerby who asked him for his thoughts, which got a slow turn and a steady, slightly unnerving look.

  ‘A dispute among smugglers ain’t unusual, Mr Sowerby. It be obvious to me there’s been one and this be the result.’

  ‘But why dump them here?’ Tooke demanded.

  ‘Put you off the scent, Mr Tooke. I reckon this didn’t happen here.’

  ‘A point already made,’ Cavell said.

  ‘So whoever did the deed does not want it known where.’ Hawker knew he was taking a huge risk when he added, ‘Find the spot and you’ll find the culprits.’

  ‘Aside there,’ came from the back of the assembled crowd, who saw no reason to part for the unknown John Cottin.

  He was obliged to elbow his way through. The trio whom he’d met previously exchanged concerned glances before he emerged and, once in plain view of the sight, he stood shocked. He’d seen a dead body in his life before; who had not stood over the open coffin of a relative to pay their last respects? But even as a high sheriff, and having taken a look at the charred body from Quebec House, this was his first sight of death by such obvious violence and it stopped him cold, struggling to find words to articulate what he was feeling. He looked at the faces closest to him, the three he knew and the one a stranger, he now the subject of the cold and unnerving stare.

  ‘What happened here?’ Even loudly expressed, it was feeble and treated as such.

  ‘Nowt unusual,’ shouted a wit from the crowd. ‘Happens every day.’

  ‘Fewer mouths to feed,’ added another.

  ‘Mr Cottin,’ said Cavell, ‘this is my concern until I have drawn certain conclusions. Then and only then do you have an interest.’

  ‘I beg to differ, sir.’

  ‘Differ as much as you care to,’ Sowerby snapped. This pest must be kept out of matters if at all possible. ‘But if you do not stand back and allow us to perform our duties, I will have you removed.’

  ‘And if you interfere with me in the performance of my duties, sir, you will find yourself under lock and key. As High Sheriff of Kent, I represent the authority of both the county and the nation and I will not be treated as a person of no account.’

  Naming his office, Cottin had set up a buzz amongst the gathering, the majority of whom had no idea who he was. Having, he felt, silenced Sowerby, he went to stand before the body of Harry Spafford, hands on hips and gaze fixed, trying to give the impression of being in command of his thoughts. In truth they were all over the place. A lawyer by trade, his appointment was political, nothing but a link to higher authority as usually carried out; he had not come to it with any ability in the investigation of crime. Sage nods covered his ignorance as he stood over the unknown trio.

  ‘Do we know who they are?’

  ‘Not all,’ Cavell responded, without adding names.

  ‘No need to establish the cause of death, Mr Cavell, so your duty as coroner is straightforward. This is murder, plain and simple. Let us hope nailing a culprit will be easier than your efforts over Quebec House.’

  Sowerby was sure John Hawker’s actions then were plain wrong, for he visibly jerked at the mention, to spin on his heel and make for the throng, which again parted to let him pass, proof of the concern felt immediate.

  ‘Who’s that fellow?’ Cottin demanded, to receive no answer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Heading into Deal, later than normal and after a good night’s sleep, Henry Tulkington mulled over things as they were. His first task was to meet with Rudd and collect from him the potion he would need to render, in an emergency, his sister comatose. It was now the time to lay before Rudd the proposition of committing her to West Malling, should it become necessary, with himself as the sole consulting physician. Once within the confines of such an institution, he was sure he could contrive to keep her there, by the provision of excess fees if required, though it might be in order to pay a visit and survey the way they operated; should it prove to be unsuitable, another home for the mentally troubled would have to be found.

  With Hawker, it would be necessary to act with caution, given a cargo was imminent: the weather looking set to be perfect in the coming nights, he needed to see it safely landed. His feathers were ruffled and required a degree of soothing, given their last exchange had been uncomfortable. But surely, allowing those bodies, as well as his horses, to be stolen must dent any arrogance he still possessed about who was in control. His last problem, Dirley, he saw as easy to resolve. His uncle had never come across to him as willing to dispute, and besides, he ha
d little choice but to comply.

  Being mid-morning, the Freemason’s Lodge was quiet, but Rudd wasn’t present as arranged, which was irritating if not seriously so. It was not long before Henry realised quiet was too mild a description, the place was deserted, which had him ask the steward for an explanation, which brought no enlightenment. Having no one to take coffee with, he decided it would be a good time to visit Garlick again and keep abreast of what that damned sheriff was up to.

  ‘At the graveyard? Why, in the name of all that’s holy, has he gone there?’

  ‘You don’t know, your honour?’

  ‘Obviously not.’

  ‘They’ve found three bodies there. Murdered fer certain. Word is it’s the two Spaffords and Dan’s mate Trotter.’

  To avoid reacting was impossible and Henry could in no way manage it. But what was visible to Garlick was taken for astonishment, not shock, and the ‘My God’ fell into the same category.

  ‘Whole town’s gone to look. I went down on being told but couldn’t get close for the crowd.’

  ‘I would be remiss if I didn’t join them. Good day, Mr Garlick.’

  It was a relief to get away from the gaze of the man, though it allowed for nothing in the way of relaxation. There was a moment when he wondered if what he’d been told was true, only to then castigate himself for being a fool. He knew those bodies had disappeared, now he knew the purpose, albeit such knowledge did not bring much comfort.

  Head down, thinking and walking, he paid no heed to those tipping their hat in respect because he couldn’t see them. His first instinct was to make straight for the slaughterhouse, but it was quickly put aside. Best stay away from Hawker until he knew more, so it was back to the empty Lodge, to have brandy with his coffee and think things through. Doing so eased his pulse somewhat: if you excluded the sods held at the farmhouse, the only people who could connect him with those bodies had been involved, so could not speak, while he would do his best to ensure any enquiries were limited. Easy with those who looked into such matters locally, but would it work on Cottin?