‘Given the garrulous nature of Garlick, it’s no place to be staying at all.’
Still holding the mirror, Brazier wondered at the effect it would have on everyone, not least Betsey. But there were others too, and no man likes to admit to being given a sound beating, regardless of who was dishing it out.
‘Saoirse, I have mind to put this down to a fall from my horse.’
‘And you ended up here how?’
‘As luck would have it, a Good Samaritan came across me by a high hedge, on my back and in distress and took me in.’
‘It makes a good tale, though I’m far from sure I’d be one to believe it.’
‘You don’t have to believe it, only to relate it, if asked.’
‘Male pride?’
‘Call it what you will.’
‘Not much to ask.’
Betsey Langridge was not one to be easily dissuaded, neither would she give her brother the satisfaction of refusing her a conveyance to take her into town. Sure he was occupied with a visitor, and her Aunt Sarah busy overseeing her domestic duties, she made ready to go out in a dress-cum-riding habit. The first act was to raid her cash box, then, clad in stout shoes, under a wide bonnet and a medium cloak, she left to make her way down to the gate, a couple of pence in her hand for the keeper, he being her only concern. Had Henry forbade him to let her pass?
The dog, as he came out at her approach, snarled and strained to get at her, to which she paid no attention, given it was seeking to impress Tanner, the gateman. Its main function was to deter callers, especially the indigent in pursuit of charity, and anyway, it was on a thick rope lead. Of more concern was the look the gatekeeper gave her, for it carried a clear thought: to him quality, outside their own property, unless they were children, never walked anywhere.
‘Please open the gate, Tanner.’
She said this, hoping the tremor she felt in her voice did not carry. His hesitation was obvious, the reason less so and since he gave no immediate verbal response, Betsey felt it safe to assume he had no instructions. The coins were proffered and accepted, albeit with a tinge of doubt, the great key produced and the well-oiled lock released.
Betsey Langridge found herself out on a road she had not walked along since the time she had ceased to be a child and started to become a woman, which was seen as unbecoming. The mere act brought back the same kind of recollections she’d had when walking round the lake with Edward Brazier and, with it, a sense of freedom.
Her destination was Long Farm House, which had been the home of her childhood girlfriend, one of that group of which she and Stephen had formed a playful portion and had been part of the guest list at Cottington on the day of the fete. She was let through the gate to be welcomed at the door by Annabel Colpoys.
‘You came on foot?’ Annabel asked, after a hug of greeting, shocked, as if to do so was to court the risk of being murdered.
‘I have fallen out with Henry, Annabel, and I refuse to beg from him a carriage to take me into Lower Deal.’
‘Your brother,’ Annabel sighed, for she had known him nearly as long as her friend and could well recall being troubled, on the rare occasion he joined them, by his presence, which was death to gaiety.
‘I will walk if I must, but I was hoping you and Roger might be able to aid me.’
‘He is out in the carriage, but I can give you the dog cart or a donkey,’ Annabel laughed. ‘Neither of which will enhance you in the public eye.’
‘A donkey was good enough for Jesus, I recall being taught, so will serve. I only need it to get to the yard of the horse dealer I have heard about, a Mr Flaherty, where I am hoping he will rent me a pony.’ A bit lip followed; what she was about to ask for was bound to be revealing. ‘If he does, I wonder if I could stable it with you?’
Annabel frowned. ‘That speaks of more than a tiff, Betsey.’
‘He wishes me to be beholden to him, as he has always, and I am determined not to. I have been, like you are now, mistress of my own house and married.’
‘Poor Stephen,’ was inevitable, so hands were held, eyes were dropped, for a ritual moment of silence. ‘You must miss him so.’
Her silent nod was a formality, for Betsey Langridge had conjured up an image, not of her late husband, but of Edward Brazier. Could that be because of time passed? She told herself that in order to assuage her feeling of guilt, but it failed to convince.
‘If you will permit me, I will take the donkey and leave it with Mr Flaherty for later collection.’
If Betsey was curious as to why Annabel hesitated, she was not about to be enlightened – not to be told that Annabel’s husband Roger had said many times that Henry Tulkington was a man to be very cautious of. Indeed, if he had been present, he might have declined to assist.
‘Of course you can,’ was finally said with determined force. ‘And I will lend you my saddle.’
Given what had occurred, John Hawker had been tempted to break a prohibition, which forbade him from visiting Cottington Court. Henry Tulkington kept his connection always at one remove, so that at no time could he personally be linked to illegality, so Hawker had to wait out the rest of the night and most of the morning. His employer would call at the slaughterhouse in any case, to find out if the previous night’s tasks had been successfully completed, which was something of a routine and had been for a very long time.
On being given the news that it was not so, he reacted with an unsettling degree of composure before turning to the stove to once more warm his hands, a position he held for some time as he cogitated on what he had just been told. After the farrago in the coach, it pointed to Spafford.
He had deliberately kept Hawker in ignorance of the exchange, which had nothing to do with promises − it was habit. Should he tell him now? He decided not to, slowly spinning to face him, and talking in a voice not much above a whisper he finally asked the question for which Hawker had understandably been waiting.
‘How much did they get away with?’
His man was looking at him keenly, obviously seeking to find in his expression, added to the tone of his voice, anything of the nature of blame. He had been thrown by the calm way his employer had reacted, expecting instead a blast of fury directed at him for allowing such a theft to occur. All he could do was hand over a slip of paper.
‘Not close to a mite of the whole, by my reckoning, as you’ll see, but it weren’t the quantity, it were the boldness of it.’
Tulkington moved away again to study the list, mentally calculating the value, only to conclude it was not enough to fund Harry Spafford for a couple of months, let alone the kind of legacy sum at which his father had hinted. It did not preclude them from being responsible, quite the reverse: it did raise a troubling question. Was it merely a provocation, an attempt to draw him into a reaction? Or could it be just a ploy to get that for which Spafford had asked?
Once more he wondered about sharing these thoughts with Hawker, to tell him not only what was discussed, but that Spafford might be dying? His man, fully appraised, would be bound to draw the same conclusion as he, as well as give the expected response: nothing less than an immediate punitive raid on the farmhouse at Worth. Was that what Spafford wanted, the opening bout in a war? Expecting trouble, he would be ready and waiting to drive them off, which would certainly provoke unwelcome consequences.
A confrontation was bound to spill blood and that drew attention, which could only be unwelcome, given Spafford was correct: those who commonly turned a blind eye to the trade, and even profited from it in some cases, could not ignore the lawlessness this would produce. Both would suffer, yet Spafford might feel he had little to lose: if it brought him down, it could do the same to Tulkington. For what had been stolen, it was not worth the risk. He turned to look back at Hawker, his expression giving nothing of these thoughts away.
‘It could not have been done without they knew there was a cargo landing last night.’
It took no great wit to realise that moving contraband the
way they did was bound to be whispered about; Tulkington knew that as well as John Hawker. The Kent coast might be a secretive community, but that was not a seal on talk – how could it be otherwise? Too many folk drew payment for concealment or being part of an unloading chain, helping to move on hidden goods, as well as those who kept watch on the paths leading to the bay.
‘I take it not one of our people saw a familiar face, or heard a voice they knew?’
‘They were stuck in the tunnels,’ Hawker responded, with a shake of his head. ‘An’ the ship’s crew wouldn’t know the thieving bastards from Adam, even if they was from round these parts. I suppose it could be some fool from Deal chancing his arm, but how do we find out?’
‘Stealing is one thing, John, but to be profitable it will have to be sold. Surely we will smoke who’s suddenly got brandy and tobacco to trade.’
‘Good thinkin’, Mr Tulkington. We’ll soon smoke them out if they’re from these parts.’
The subject was changed abruptly once all that needed to be said about the previous night had been aired. ‘There was the other matter I asked you to attend to?’
‘And it was.’
Tulkington was pleased to hear Brazier had been given his due, less enamoured when he found out it had taken place in the Lower Valley Road close to the Old Playhouse, it being a spot reckoned too public, though the man who had arranged the affair was in no way abashed. His employer had wanted Brazier seen to quick and it had been done. That being so, it left no time to act choosy as to where.
‘As I said, it had to be as and when. He didn’t get the full ticket, I admit, he kept his purse, our lads being disturbed, but enough was handed out to make him hurt.’
‘It is to be hoped he gets the message.’
‘As it is to be hoped he don’t connect it to you and his dealings with your sister. Might be he causes trouble, in which case …’
Hawker did not have to finish, for it was the same fate as he expected would befall those who had carried out the previous night’s thieving.
‘My sister will likely tell me of it, so I’ll write to him and commiserate on his misfortune to allay suspicion.’
‘And the thieving?’
‘Ear to the ground, John, as ever. But I need to think on how to play it, if you find the rogues.’
‘Only one way as I can see.’
‘Perhaps,’ was the enigmatic response.
A hand was held out to take from Hawker the key that would give Tulkington access to the tunnels. His next destination would be the chambers where his contraband was stored, every item checked against a manifest to ensure no further pilfering had been added to theft, that providing a perfect opportunity for light fingers.
As was his habit on these occasions there was no coach, just him on a less-favoured mode of transport, for he was no lover of the discomfort of riding a horse. There was no choice if he wanted to keep certain things secret and it was not just stored contraband. That checked, he could then go on to a place and a person it was necessary to visit when success raised his needs. This would be followed by a second destination: the house he had acquired for meetings of the Downs Lodge.
Not that tonight would be a formal occasion, more one in which he could meet and converse with those of like standing, drinking abstemiously while others did so copiously, which allowed him to listen carefully to what was said. It was from such gatherings he sometimes gleaned information that could later be put to use, and also the place where he stayed in touch with those required to be kept sweet.
At home, his Aunt Sarah was wondering what to do. Elisabeth was nowhere to be found and it took no great leap of the imagination to guess where she might have gone. Henry needed to be told, the trouble with that idea being she had no idea where her nephew was either.
Vincent Flaherty was no stranger to odd apparitions and they were not always brought on through overimbibing. But the sight of a well-dressed lady, sat side-saddle on a donkey, caused him to blink, for the quality of the riding garments, bonnet and cloak did not match the means of transportation. Added to that was the way she waited for him to help her down, the act of someone accustomed to respect and attention. That done, he found himself looking into a pair of corn blue eyes and a very comely face, which piqued a more-than-normal degree of interest.
‘Ma’am.’
‘You are Mr Flaherty?’ If he nodded he was unsure it was necessary, for it did not sound like a question; she seemed to have no doubt about his name. ‘I have come here in the hope of hiring a mount, a decent-sized pony perhaps − nothing above fifteen hands, which is a height to which I’m accustomed. The saddle on the donkey will fit such an animal, I think.’
‘Then I may have just what you need.’
The trading was brisk for, if his pretty visitor looked to be gentle and pliable, she was anything but. The name she gave him, Mrs Langridge, did not register, while her address at Long Farm House was close by, but never by him visited; Vincent Flaherty was not of the standing to be invited to such dwellings. Luckily he had a pony, said to be from Ireland originally, black in colour and just below fifteen hands, a gelding that went by the name of Canasta. So a bargain was struck for a week, with rent added to a deposit to ensure the animal was returned whole.
‘Canasta?’
‘Spanish for basket, I’m told, Mrs Langridge. This I will say to you, for I have ridden him. He is a good mount, friendly, but he is strong. If you do not have a firm hand, he will run with you.’
‘I am sure I will manage, Mr Flaherty; I have been riding ponies and horses since I was a child.’
As she left Flaherty jingled her coins in his hand, thinking they would serve to pay back Edward Brazier if he returned Bonnie. The captain’s deposit had gone on his debt to the feed merchant.
If his coat and waistcoat hid his body bruises, Brazier’s hat, which had been recovered the night before, even pulled low, did not do much to hide his face, so he was subjected to a raft of stares. This meant he was constantly raising a hand to hide it as he and Saoirse made their way from the Playhouse to the southern end of Middle Street, which ran to the wall of the Naval Yard.
Quebec House was of three storeys, solid in construction in the middle of other dwellings, with dormers jutting from the roof tiles, and entered by a low doorway. It sat on the down slope, which led from the beach to the shallow valley behind. Brazier already knew of its age; besides, the name would have given it away. It was being built when the news came of the capture of Quebec in the year ’59 by General James Wolfe, which gave it a tinge of sadness; Britain’s best general had been killed taking the capital city of French Canada, to be much mourned.
Inside, the furniture was covered in sheets, quickly removed, without filling the air with dust, which signified the house was regularly cleaned. Once revealed, what was there spoke of comfort and quality while the whole had charm. The brick-lined inglenook fireplaces were high and wide, stacked with logs, but not for cooking. There was a proper and separate wood-fired range in a small rear chamber, and a second large-windowed parlour facing south from which to catch the sun in the evenings.
The dining room and drawing room were panelled in high-quality waxed pine and Saoirse had even purchased some portraits and a couple of landscapes, to make it look like an old family residence. Two small cupboards lay either side of the fireplace, one for powdering wigs, the other a storeroom for crockery and cutlery, while the walls boasted several sconces for candles.
A mahogany dining table could sit four, six or ten with the leaves extended and there were the chairs needed to accommodate that number of guests as well as a sideboard for everything required to entertain, including a small metal-lined cupboard for the necessary pot.
‘It must have been a well-heeled marine to have afforded this.’
‘He was, and an amorous soul to boot. I think he thought I came with the house.’
It was hard to appear inquisitive with his altered face, so the look he gave her was one to which she di
d not respond. If she perceived his curiosity as to how the marine officer had fared, Saoirse was not about to satisfy him.
‘Linen and bedding I will provide, there’s plates and cutlery in yon cupboard and, if you wish, I will send the required traders to call upon you, the people I myself use.’
‘Do I sense I am not allowed to haver?’
‘You’d be a fool to, Captain, in my opinion. This is the best you will find in the town and I am not one to seek to sting those who occupy it, even hot-blooded marines.’
‘Speaking of which?’
‘Ten guineas down afore, to be held, and four shillings per week, with a guarantee of three months’ tenancy.’
‘On a handshake?’
‘Never in life. I have been dunned before and obliged to chase flitters gone to sea and with poor results. So it will be from here we go to my lawyer in the Western Way and a written agreement drawn up, signed and witnessed.’
Edward Brazier was thinking about the three months. Had he been asked this two days ago he would have said no, but having seen and talked with Betsey, he was more confident and he had already acknowledged matters could not be rushed.
‘Very well.’
Flaherty had not been wrong about Canasta; he was a pony requiring a firm grip on the reins and no soft voice of command. That accepted, and she knew her horseflesh, there was a charm about him, most evident when she dismounted and found herself nuzzled affectionately, which led to a degree of slapping and rubbing, taken well. Looking into his huge brown eyes, she was sure she saw intelligence.
Entering the Three Kings, Betsey found a singular-looking fellow behind the hatch opening; bald head, purple cratered nose and heavy whiskers, who was most obliging and positively fawning when she asked for Captain Brazier; he too could spot by her garments she was quality.
The Contraband Shore Page 15
