Blood Will Out

by David Donachie

  ‘We do, John,’ Dolphin murmured.

  ‘Mr Hawker to you,’ got an immediate nod. ‘Food, Marker.’

  He moved aside to let Marker kick in a tray piled with bread and cheese, a full bucket of water placed just inside the door. About to close it again, Dolphin issued a quick plea, nodding towards a corner.

  ‘T’other bucket needs emptying, Mr Hawker, close to overflowing it is.’

  The reply was not instant but eventually he nodded, so Dolphin edged over to pick up the receptacle which had been given to them for waste, to then be forced to squeeze by Hawker, careful not to spill the contents, thinking if it hit his riding boots with the piss and shit he was carrying, a pistol ball would follow before a second had passed.

  Marker, also armed, led him to the kitchen door, which came out the back of the farmhouse, to a spot which looked as if it had once been a sty. Filth emptied, Dolphin was led back in, to be afforded a fleeting glance at the main parlour, enough to register all of Hawker’s men were dressed for outdoors and holding their weapons, powder horns over their shoulders. Back inside the room Hawker, holding the handle and preparing to shut the door, growled and thrust forward the pistol.

  ‘Recall what I said. No second chances.’

  As Eastry Sam looked set to speak, Dolphin held up his hand for silence, to then tiptoe over to the door and press his ear to the crack. A whole minute passed before he turned round to tell his mates that, by the sound of it and what he’d seen, Hawker’s lot were pulling out.

  ‘What does that mean for us?’

  Looking around the whitewashed walls, then up at the two slim, dirt-encrusted windows close to the ceiling, which gave them all the light they had, though neither could be opened, Dolphin mumbled, ‘Nowt I can see, we’s still locked in.’

  It was Cocky on watch when Hawker was spotted for the second time, the men behind his mount and packhorse a gaggle of boots kicking up dust. By the time they passed, two pairs of eyes were counting to ten, while reckoning them to be a grim-looking bunch. When they’d moved away from any chance of hearing or seeing, to the watchers, one question was obvious.

  ‘D’ye reckon it be the lot, Cocky?’

  ‘Only one way tae find oot. Go take a gander at yon farmhoose.’

  ‘Capt’n first,’ Peddler insisted, ‘it’ll be his choice.’

  ‘One of us?’

  ‘No point, Cocky. Reckon we’ve seen all we’re goin’ to be gifted this day.’

  Back at Zachary’s smallholding, they gathered for a talk to decide what to do. Told of Hawker being on his own the first time he was spotted, Brazier wondered if he’d missed a trick, passed up a chance to get the sod on his own, which he so wanted to do. But he reasoned trying to take him in the open would be too risky, lest he just wanted to shoot him, not the real aim.

  There had to be a reason for Hawker removing his men, not a conclusion to get him very far: it could be any number of things, while he was in no position to look for possibilities. He needed eyes and ears in Deal, which meant asking the likes of Vincent and, more importantly, Saoirse Riorden what they knew or could find out. Again, he had no idea of how many men Hawker could muster. Probably dozens from Deal beach with a click of his fingers, but it was just possible what had been observed mustered as his core strength.

  ‘Don’t suppose you counted them on the way to the farmhouse, Dutchy?’

  ‘Never occurred, Capt’n, my eye was on Hawker. What chance them they had as captives are still breathin’ is what my mind’s on.’

  ‘Yer no alone, Dutchy.’

  ‘If they’d shot ’em, Cocky, we’d have heard,’ Peddler suggested.

  ‘Might have cut their throats.’ The looks Brazier got made him add, ‘And don’t go thinking they’re not capable of it, which means we need to go and look.’

  ‘Not this night, your honour,’ Dutchy proposed, glancing at the sky, now the deep blue colour of a sun on its way to sinking. ‘I’s got enough scrapes from the last time.’

  Brazier ran a hand over his face, which had the same kind of scratches. ‘Trouble is, it’s the best time to tell. If there’s lights on it means the Spaffords are still breathing. If the house is dark, they’re dead. It only needs one to see, so I’ll go.’

  ‘Not on your own you won’t.’

  As Dutchy stood so did everyone else. ‘I could make it an order.’

  ‘Might not be obeyed, us having been paid off.’

  In the end it was he, Dutchy and Joe, Cocky and Peddler having done their stint. There was enough twilight to allow for a direct route and they had a lantern for the return, while it was reckoned if any of Hawker’s men were left at the farmhouse, they would not be in the numbers necessary to mount a proper watch. By the time they reached the trees at the back of the place, in the approaching darkness the spill of lights emanating from the shuttered windows told them it was occupied, which for Brazier was enough to turn back.

  The smell of cooking came from Zachary’s shack and, on entry, there he was, bent over the grate, this time roasting on a spit a leg of pork he’d bought in Sandwich, paid for from the funds Brazier was now providing. So it was another round of tale-telling, good food and enough cider drunk to ensure, after prayers, sound sleep.

  At the farmhouse Marker and Isaac Tombs, who’d been left with him, ate a lot less well, while contemplating a night in which they’d have to take turns staying awake. In Deal, John Hawker treated the bulk of his men to a good meal and ale at the Ship Inn − not too much of the latter for, as he made plain, there was work to be done on the morrow.

  At the Lodge, Tobias Sowerby was dining with Cavell, Tooke and Gould, another magistrate and the fourth person, the silent and nodding one, who’d been at the Three Kings when Cottin arrived. They were, inevitably, discussing what to do about the events of the day and going round in circles, without getting close to naming a culprit. Sowerby had barely engaged in the conversation, instead trying to work out what to do with the tale he’d been told by Henry Tulkington.

  The hours since had convinced him, even if it was likely claptrap, the story contained insinuations it might be in his interest to pass on. Even if he suspected him to be the guilty party, he was a dependant of Tulkington, so protecting him, even from his own too vivid imagination, came down to self-interest. So he cut in, when a gap in the conversation presented an opportunity.

  ‘It occurs to me, the fellow we should be looking to pin the blame on is this Brazier.’

  ‘Why?’ Cavell asked, with the others just as inquisitive.

  ‘Motive, Sidney.’

  At the Three Kings, August Garlick was wondering what had been in the note Cottin had sent, by the hand of his stable boy, to Mr Tulkington, but his guest was not saying. Nor was he letting on about the reply he’d received by return, though an indication came from his ordering of a hack for the morning, enquiries about his destination rebuffed. It was, of course, Cottington Court, where Henry was at dinner, having decided on the tale he would tell the High Sheriff, while wondering why he was getting such odd looks, close to glares, from his Aunt Sarah.

  Elisabeth, eating in her room, could not help wondering what was happening outside the walls of her family home, hoping for actions which might aid her plight.

  Up with the lark, albeit with a thick tongue, Edward Brazier decided it was time he was shaved, with Joe obliging, using Zachary’s strop and razor to cut through his thick growth. As the blade moved, he was thinking about his plans for the day, the first being to find out how many men Hawker had left behind at the Spafford farmhouse and what was he up to in taking the others away? Could a clue have been left behind? For any other inkling he’d have to press Vincent Flaherty, and hopefully Saoirse as well, to act as his eyes and ears in Deal, a request passed on to the Irishman when he turned up for what had fast become a daily call.

  ‘I told you before, Edward, Deal is not a place to go about enquiring, and on the likes of Hawker it’s damned deadly.’

  ‘Saoirse has an ear to
the ground.’

  ‘She has feet on the ground too, brother.’

  ‘You’ll ask her, though? I can’t stay out here forever, but when I move I want it to be with a purpose. Hawker has to be confronted and hopefully put out of the picture so I can deal with Tulkington.’

  ‘There’s only one way to put a bastard like that out of the picture.’

  ‘Which is what I will do if I have to, but not at the price of a rope round my neck. Another thing − can you bring from the stables the muskets, which Dutchy tells me were left there? I also need a pair of pistols, as well as powder and balls.’ This got a jaundiced look, to which Brazier responded, ‘To threaten with, not to use.’

  ‘Holy Mary, there’s a notion that worked well the last time, did it not?’

  ‘I’ll get you some more money,’ was said to avoid admitting he was right.

  In Deal, a cutter, supplied with small beer and food, was being rolled down pebbles and into the water, where the pair manning it raised a single sail. Their task was to take station out to sea, off St Margaret’s, apparently fishing but with an eye out for the vessel carrying the expected contraband, easy to recognise by a singular non-national flag. Once spotted, the captain could be advised it was safe, weather permitting, to make a landing the following night and they would speed back to set in motion everything on land.

  The rest of Hawker’s men left Deal in pairs to scout out the ground and approaches to the bay, looking for any signs of unusual activity. They would also alert the people who would port the cargo to an imminent arrival. One pair hitched a lift on one of Sowerby’s vans, on its way to Dover, to drink in the White Horse, there to spread a bit of charity and listen in to gossip.

  By ten of the clock, Dirley Tulkington was entering his chambers to begin the day’s business, in consultation with his partners and juniors to discuss what cases, mostly commercial not criminal, were still in progress, those coming up and the line of approach which would be taken, as well as the size of any offers of settlement in those where the client had a poor chance of winning. As usual, following on from the morning conference, he took coffee in his own office to open his freshly delivered mail, leaving those he knew to be of a personal nature till last.

  The rush of blood to his face was strongly felt as he read the pair from Henry, one he suspected a lie, the other telling him to stay out of Elisabeth’s affairs. What had him worried was the scribble from her − even the addressing did not correspond to her usual tidy hand − but it was the contents which left Dirley in shock, wondering what had got into his nephew to have visited such cruelties on his sister. It took a real effort to calm himself and allow the barrister to take over from the agitated relative.

  It was plain Henry had lied to him about the marriage, which in terms of motive now looked to be an underhand manoeuvre to get his hands on the income from Elisabeth’s plantations. Given his own wealth, this seemed ridiculously avaricious, but the task now was to invalidate the papers he’d been obliged to prepare at Henry’s request. There was a slight hope they’d not been signed.

  What had occurred, as described by Elisabeth, was a crime, pure and simple, one sufficient to put Henry on the ship about to sail for what the government hoped would be a penal colony in Australasia. Somehow, this had to be avoided; none of what he’d read must come to light but, at the same time, it required to be put right. An Ecclesiastical Court must annul the marriage, but how to keep this from becoming public?

  Also a consideration was the notion Henry might be insane, so Dirley dragged the root of his memory of their last meeting for clues. He’d been insufferable, yes, but mad? One fact was obvious: this could not be resolved by correspondence, so the bell was rung to summon his chief clerk.

  ‘Get someone along to Charing Cross and book me on the next available post-chaise to Dover. And send another round to my residence and have my servants pack a valise as well as my pistol case. All my commitments for the next few days will need to be handled by others.’

  Saoirse Riorden was a well-known figure in the town and well respected, if you excluded the religious and those in the kind of social order, certainly the women, who thought the whole of Deal a sink of iniquity; their menfolk held to a fine line in downright hypocrisy, equally ready to condemn, while availing themselves of whatever suited their tastes, with a strong line in virgins. But it had to be admitted, compared to some of the places in the town, where every vice would be met, the Old Playhouse could have qualified for near consecration.

  Sharing a type of business with many others, which would loosely be described as hospitality, it was a necessary requirement to keep in touch with others in the trade, a freemasonry every bit as solid as those who frequented the Lodge. In addition, there were those who supplied her emporium with the means to feed her customers and, in the case of beer, drink as well.

  So on her rounds she would call in on the tradesfolk, as well as various places which provided accommodation for visitors, people who made up a slice of her clientele, one of them being the Three Kings. Garlick was always happy to greet another proprietor whom he saw as having an ear to the ground.

  There, as in other places she visited, it would have been unnatural to have avoided what was now being called ‘The Graveyard Slayings’, this having occupied much talk and endless speculation with the baker, the butcher, the brewer and the candle maker, Saoirse agreeing to the general opinion the town was going to the dogs, with criminality rife and no one safe, even in their beds.

  ‘Sure, it was ever thus was it not, Mister Garlick?’

  ‘A war would cheer their mood, Miss Saoirse. There’s not a soul who does not prosper when the French dander is up. I only need to look at my ordering in to see how my trade is down since the last peace.’

  Saoirse agreed. The American fight dragged in the French, which in turn brought on the need for convoys. With Deal being the place in which they assembled, it had been very good for business.

  ‘Mind, I sense a mood, don’t you, these last weeks?’

  ‘One that has cost you dear.’ Sensing her expression demanded more, Garlick added. ‘And at least one poor soul his life.’

  Anyone watching would have seen it as performance, though they would also have been obliged to note the quality. Saoirse lent forward, in her mind working on the principle if you wanted something, it was wise to offer an inducement first.

  ‘Can I trust you with a bit of news?’ Garlick’s lugubrious countenance became animated as he closed to near nothing the gap between them. ‘I have been told the fellow’s name.’

  ‘You have? By whom?’

  Equally theatrical was the sideways looks to ensure no eavesdroppers. ‘Best I not name the source. Called Upton, he was, and he had just been given his marching orders from − you’ll never guess where − the stables at Cottington Court.’

  ‘Holy Christ, if you’ll pardon the expression.’

  ‘Not that I sense a connection, mind.’

  ‘Heaven forfend,’ was a hasty agreement; he would be careful with anything to do with the Tulkingtons.

  ‘But it has set things disturbed, Mr Garlick, have you not noticed? There’s agitation about.’

  ‘I heard a rumour this morning.’ Interest from Saoirse invited further disclosure. ‘Hot off the beach.’

  It was a satisfied lady proprietor who departed the Three Kings.

  John Cottin was impressed, but so would be anyone of their first sight of Cottington Court. Built in the time of the second Charles, it was more elaborate in design than the modern taste for clean square lines, having intricate red brickwork and numerous leaded windows. The sheer length of the drive attested to the extent of the estate, while the house itself was enclosed within a high and extensive wall, which ran far enough to be out of sight.

  Once through the ornamental gates, the hack swung on the gravel to stop outside the pillared portico, where stood a tall slim fellow, slightly hollow-chested, whom he took to be the owner, behind him a soberly clad servan
t, the latter stepping forward to open the hack door.

  ‘Mr Cottin.’

  ‘Mr Tulkington?’

  ‘The same − allow me to invite you in. I think it best we talk privately in my study, for reasons I will explain.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Coffee or tea? Perhaps you would like something stronger?’

  ‘Coffee would be most pleasant.’ This got the servant a nod and Cottin was ushered indoors, to find it as impressive as the exterior. A spacious, light hall with a round table in the centre, this bearing a very substantial solid silver punchbowl. Satin-covered settles sat against the art-lined walls, pictures extending up the wide staircase. The study, when he was shown in, came as something of a disappointment, being, thanks to high trees, without the level of daylight outside. There was also a fire in the large grate, which seemed singularly inappropriate on what was a mild day.

  ‘Please be seated, Mr Cottin,’ Henry said, taking up station with his back to the fire. ‘It’s not every day this house plays host to such an elevated official as the High Sheriff of Kent.’

  ‘The purpose of my calling, sir—’

  Henry held up a hand. ‘Which I know of.’

  ‘You do?’ was said without any attempt to hide disappointment.

  ‘I had a message from Mr Sowerby this very morning, advising me of the name of the poor fellow who perished in Quebec House.’ The question was in Cottin’s expression. ‘Sowerby has been a frequent visitor to Cottington, many times in the days when we hosted a hunt, and naturally he got to know those who staffed my stables. He wondered if the victim was a relative.’