‘Not here, ma’am, but if you wish I can direct you to where he is now.’
‘That would be most kind Mr …’
‘Garlick, ma’am, with a k to end it.’
‘Singular, sir.’
‘Never let the stuff pass my lips. French and Papist muck to me, though the Romany folk say it’s handy for warding off evil.’
‘Captain Brazier?’ was the repeat question, the tone a mite terse.
‘Old Playhouse, ma’am, in the High Street.’
‘You’re sure he is there?’ Conscious of the effect of the question as well as the nature of the establishment, she added, ‘At this time of day?’
‘Certain, ma’am. That’s where a messenger came to request his spare breeches be sent this very morning.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Returning to the Three Kings, Edward Brazier was keen to get to his room without either being spotted or having to engage in conversation with the owner. He nearly managed it by moving swiftly, while ignoring the back pain this caused, his hat held to the side of his head to hide his bruises. The voice of Garlick calling his name stopped him.
‘There was a lady calling for you, Captain Brazier, not much more than an hour past and eager to see you. She should have found you, seeing I sent her on to the Playhouse.’
There could only be one lady calling on him and he half-turned, hat still disguising his wounds. ‘You did what?’
‘Sent her to where you was, as I was bound to.’ Garlick looked to Brazier’s lower body. ‘I knew you was there, for I sent your clean breeches, did I not?’
‘Which I hope was not mentioned.’
‘Well …’ Garlick responded with hesitation and a look of slight remorse, which was as good as saying he had.
He turned to face Garlick full on, hat dropping. ‘Describe her.’
‘My lord, your honour, what has happened to your face?’
‘Never mind my face, tell me of hers.’
The sinking feeling he experienced as Garlick spoke was as emotionally troubling as his physical afflictions, while it took no great leap of the imagination to work out what such a combination of information would lead Betsey to deduce. He was prepared to wager at any odds wanted that the Playhouse was a place she had never set foot in, but being brought up locally she would know of it and its function.
Not that it was a bawdy house – he had discerned no evidence of such activities – but it did exist as a place of drinking, gambling and, in the main room, raucous entertainment, not exclusively male, but certainly a venue no respectable female would visit. Those who did would be ladies looking for a night of free provision from the better class of sailor. Jack tar, having disbursed his coin, would expect his reward.
‘Did she go to there?’
‘Can’t say, sir. When I mentioned it, she gave me a very crabbed look and left sharp.’
‘By coach?’
The owner paused, his head sinking to his chest. ‘No, I seem to recall she might’ve come on a horse; must have been for she was carrying a crop. I can find out from the yardman.’
Brazier waved that offer away then strode out and collared the fellow who saw to the carrying of guests’ luggage as well as a dozen other tasks, one being to mind any mounts tethered in the yard. Given there had only been one lady calling, he was quick to confirm she had arrived and departed on a lively pony.
‘Gave the little bugger his head too, which got a few curses aimed at her back from those she obliged to scatter. Reckon she was in a right strop.’
‘Find young Ben for me. Tell him to get to the Naval Yard and fetch my horse.’
Back inside he barked at Garlick to send up a bottle of brandy before taking, with some caution, the stairs to his room. There he eased himself into a chair, this when pacing to and fro would have been more satisfying, the trouble being that walking pained his rib, to which was added the dull ache of his other body bruises whether in motion or still.
Yet nothing compared to the agony brought on by his imaginings and, if the delivered brandy eased his aches, it did nothing for the scenes playing out in his mind. There was only one place Betsey would go – home to Cottington Court – while he was unsure if he was being wise in his intention to pursue her and explain. Would he be required to – would not his damaged face do that for him?
Realising that was his best card, he changed his coat, with some effort, from military to civilian, at the same time as mentally rehearsing what he would say, relieved when the knock at his door told him Bonnie was outside and saddled up. He tried to get onto her unaided, but that brought on agony, so he was obliged to lead her over to the mounting block and get astride her gently. Not that he was free from torment; the mere motion, as Bonnie went from a walk to a trot, made him gasp and haul her back. Thus it was at a slow pace he took to the road out of Deal.
The blow with the birch cane was calculated to cause hurt, but not to break the skin and, had the female administering it been able to see her customer’s face, and the grimace which appeared at each strike, she would have been sure she was doing that for which she was being paid, this whipping the preliminary for what would follow.
Henry Tulkington could not be said to be taking pleasure in this, but it was, to him, necessary, and carefully examined it might have been seen as a counter to the rigid control he held over the life he led, a place and situation where he was able to freely surrender to the whims of another. The buxom lady he visited regularly had a fecund imagination for the infliction of pain and instruments that could be applied to various parts of a body to induce delightful anguish.
Even the conclusion of a session, which lasted two hours, was a combination of ecstasy and agony, as she extracted a price for the pleasure of culmination, her final act to stand him in a bathtub and wash her client’s pale frame with a stiff brush and lye, which, if she had properly carried out her commission, would seriously sting.
Little in the way of talk had taken place in those two hours, if you excluded the foul and diminishing insults spat at her client, as well as commands to obey her instructions, these accompanied by a sharp blow from a riding crop. None at all were exchanged on conclusion; the session was known to be at an end and she departed the chamber in silence.
Tulkington then dressed himself with stiff care, his thinking returning from submission to its more normal state of superiority. A guinea was left on a rough bench to which he had so recently been strapped and pounded. With his appearance checked in a mirror glass and found to be as it had on arrival, he went out to his waiting horse.
Given the exceptional circumstances of this day, prior to meeting with men he saw as associates and fellow masons, he had to go by the slaughterhouse to see whether Hawker had discovered anything about his missing property. Even with that in his mind he was, for a short while, content.
‘I’s been asking around as you required and there’s no sign of any bugger selling owt we ain’t supplied. I even hinted that I had bought some spare brandy off the beach, which needed to be got rid of quick, an’ was taken up on it sharp. If there were excess around, it would have been refused.’
‘So no one is talking about what occurred?’
‘Not a one and they would if they knew when it’s me askin’. I gave the hard eye to a couple of Spafford’s boys and they just stared back, innocent-like, and I’d reckon them to avoid my eye if there was guilt. The sods ain’t working out of our patch is my guess.’
They speculated on Ramsgate and Margate, both with harbours. Dover was not included, given the Revenue worked out of there, only to come to no conclusion. Other possibilities, like the Romney Marsh crew, were unlikely to be the culprits, due to the distance for boats, it reckoned to be too far to row. The conclusion arrived at, and aired by Tulkington, was it should be seen as a one-time affair and a loss they must stand.
‘It hurts to have you say so, when I take it personal.’
‘You carry no blame, John.’
Full eye contact was nece
ssary in the delivery of such reassurance. The business could not be carried out without the likes of this fellow, unless Tulkington chose to take charge personally. Hawker he had inherited from his father, who had taken him as a young tough, from a lowly gang member to his present rank, having him taught to read and write as well as paying for tutoring in numbers, something for which he had shown a decided aptitude.
Tulkington was suddenly made uncomfortable by the realisation of dependence, which sparked another thought. At some time Hawker might require to be replaced. Did he need to get to know the men Hawker led better, for if a substitute was required, it would have to come from amongst them?
Did any of them possess the necessary qualities of blind obedience and easy brutality allied to an ability to absorb education?
Betsey Langridge had taken the route before Edward Brazier and, if his mind was in turmoil, hers was no better, while giving Canasta his head did little to assuage that. The only thing that distracted her was the distress visited on those obliged, quicker than would be normal, to get out of her way.
Brazier’s supposition regarding the Playhouse was accurate; she had most certainly never crossed the threshold and would have been shamed to be seen doing so. If she thought about the place at all it was in lurid hues: the kind of images that in themselves were shaming, wounding enough to cause a tear when she conjured up a vision of him indulging in such merriments and more beside.
‘Clean breeches, indeed,’ she cried, as her progress scattered a flock of sheep, the curses of the lad shepherding them ignored.
Never mind the Playhouse; Lower Deal was not a location to which anyone of quality went in the hours of darkness, if you left out St George’s for an occasional evening service in winter. In daylight the Lower Valley Road was a place to confer with certain tradesmen for the artefacts required to maintain a decent establishment, emporiums that were shuttered at night to avoid having their doors and windows broken by revellers.
Even then Betsey could count on one hand the number of times she had bought there, it being confined to hats, cloths with which to make dresses, as well as shoes, purchased or taken for repair. Anything else was a male reserve, and for food, what could not be produced at home was brought to the house by a vendor obliged to respond to a written order.
Past St Leonard’s Church she hauled on the reins to slow Canasta, realising that to take him to Cottington was a silly thing to do. Not that she could see any further use for the fellow, given his purpose now seemed redundant. There was a temptation to turn round, ride back to Flaherty’s and hand him in. Yet to do that was bound to engender questions, nosy enquiries she most certainly would not answer. They would be unwelcome nonetheless.
Annabel had offered stabling; Canasta could be left there until the terms of her rental were complete and when returning the pony would arouse no comment. The fellow who saw to the gate at Long Farm House did give her an odd look when she called to be admitted; she realised why when Annabel came out to greet her.
‘I see you have put that equine through his paces, Betsey.’
The evidence was not only around Canasta’s mouth; some of his foaming saliva had streaked his flanks. Even having been walked for a bit, his chest still heaved too much for it to be seen as calm. As Betsey slipped out of her saddle, Annabel called to her gateman to take the beast and first lead it to the trough, before stabling him and washing him down.
‘Come, Betsey, let us unlock the caddy and have some tea.’
To refuse was impossible: to say she would rather go home would be rude in the face of the offer of what, to a house like this, was such a valuable commodity. Worse was the need to engage in polite talk about old and shared experiences, when her mind was still in tumult, a discomfort deepened when they heard the carriage in the driveway, which told her Roger Colpoys had returned.
Being burly, with a rubicund farmer’s countenance under bright-red hair, Roger was incapable of entering a room with anything approaching refinement. He added to that a step of such force it was inclined to make the older parts of the manor house shake. With that went a voice to match and language bordering on the vulgar.
‘By damn, Elisabeth, how nice to see you present.’
The ‘damn’ got closed eyes and pursed lips from his wife, who suffered every time he blasphemed, and they were frequent. Roger eyed the china cups and the pot, which brought on a scoff.
‘Wasting money again on that muck, I see. Can’t stand the brew me’self.’
‘Which shows on your face, husband. I do not expect you to take tea instead of claret, but it would serve if you sat down.’
The door to the drawing room was only partly open; the first child through sent it crashing back to hit the wall, he followed by two siblings, another boy and a girl. Every time Betsey saw the Colpoys’ brood, she was never sure whether to be jealous of her friend’s fecundity, or happy that her own lack of it had spared her the sort of behaviour this trio displayed; they were as unruly as their father and carried his colouring.
Then there was the effect on Annabel, who had never been a beauty, but had been a valued friend two years her senior and one who made up from the lack of looks with a wonderful manner and a sharp wit. Motherhood seemed to have quashed that, for she was of a more serious mien now. Or was it the years of living with her coarse spouse?
‘Behave, you lot,’ reverberated around the house and brought the children up short, more for the way Roger’s crop slapped his boots than the voice, given he was prone to employ it. ‘Say hello to your Aunt Elisabeth, by damn.’
The responses came out as meek and mumbled whispers before they were, as Roger called it, sent packing.
‘Surprised to see you, Betsey, with no carriage in the drive.’
‘She walked down from Cottington,’ Annabel said, handily forgetting to mention the time at which this had occurred.
‘What! Walk! Why in God’s name—’
‘She fell out with Henry.’
‘Not hard, by damn,’ was the response, before Roger sought to correct himself, his face slightly contorted. ‘He’s a good fellow, mind you. Honoured to know him, what.’
‘I lent Betsey the donkey to ride.’ A pause, ‘It was not to take the whole way into Deal.’
Ginger eyebrows went up at the thought of Elisabeth Langridge on such a beast. If Roger Colpoys was known for his coarseness, she was seen as the soul of refinement, not in the least affected by time abroad. They had barely settled back in place when he demanded Betsey recount what had happened, which she was obliged to do, including her renting of Canasta, added to the fact that the pony was now in his stables.
‘I had intended to pick the donkey up on the way back, but I forgot.’
‘Fallen out with Henry, eh? Rum business.’
Roger enunciated that before throwing himself into a chair and fixing his wife with a stare, soon turned on Betsey, it being one which invited further explanation. Since none was forthcoming, an awkward silence followed, with Annabel looking at the floor and her husband eventually lifting his eyes to the ceiling, as if in contemplation.
‘I should be getting back to Cottington.’
‘Damn it, had I known, I would have left the carriage harnessed.’
‘I walked here, Roger, I can walk back.’
He hauled himself upright and barked unconvincingly, ‘Won’t hear of it.’
‘Please, Roger, it is not far and I would appreciate the air.’ The tone of that being firm enough to brook no argument had Roger’s mouth working without anything emerging. ‘Henry will be wondering where I’ve got to.’
‘Yes,’ Roger said with a frown, which Betsey sensed was brought on by worry, one to which she felt it inappropriate to respond.
‘Annabel. Thank you for the tea and your aid with the animals. I will call soon and take the pony back to Mr Flaherty, fetching your donkey back.’
A servant was called to bring her cloak, kisses were exchanged, and Betsey departed with the feeling she had left
behind her an atmosphere. It was evident in the stiff way Roger was now behaving, added to the air of apprehension exhibited by a wife who had picked up the mood as well, much as she tried to disguise it. Unknown to their recent visitor, Roger Colpoys was berating his wife for getting involved before she even got out of the gate.
Walking head down, she did not see the bay mare until she was close and when she did, it occurred to her the man astride it seemed to be asleep, head lowered and rocking gently with the motion. Then she realised the hat he was wearing was jutted front and back, it being a scraper, a singular design worn only by naval officers.
The combination of the human shape and the familiarity of the horse, seen only the day before, registered and she let out an involuntary gasp, loud enough to be heard, also strong enough to lift and turn that head, which brought from Betsey Langridge a scream.
‘Edward, what has happened to you?’
With his lip in the condition it was, the smile he produced did not still any anxieties. ‘I fear I have been the victim of a fall. I set Bonnie at a hedge and while she pulled up, I did not.’
‘Poor you,’ was the response as she looked up at him, mixed with deep shame at her previous condemnations, which made her next words seem very feeble. ‘I called at the Three Kings.’
‘I am well aware of it, just as I know that what was imparted to you was not well received.’
‘The Playhouse?’
‘Is where I was taken, having been rescued from the field where I lay by the owner, who was passing and was good enough to take me in, see to my immediate needs then to call a doctor. Unable to move with ease, I rested there overnight.’ Her hand was to her mouth. ‘I can guess what you thought.’
‘If I could tell you how sorry I am for such imaginings.’
‘I would dismount to hear them, but without a block I’m not sure I could get back on the horse again. Please forgive me if it looks like bad manners, or even resentment.’
The Contraband Shore Page 16
