‘I require you to do as I ask. You will come to see it is for the best.’
They were walking along Middle Street as twilight fell, passing several taverns, which was not to be remarked upon even if Brazier had hinted to his crewmen his intention to down some ale. Pushing through the bustle of Portobello Court, Brazier stopped before an alleyway, around which stood several obvious Mollies in gaudy attire, eyeing the quartet with a mixture of suspicion and, in one or two cases, interest; it was not always youth and beauty that engendered attraction.
‘I am minded to have a look,’ Brazier said, turning to his trio with an amused expression.
As ever it was Peddler who had the wit to respond in the appropriate manner. ‘Well I’ll be buggered, Capt’n!’
‘Ye will if ye gan in there,’ was Cocky Logan’s chirpy opinion.
‘I sense a purpose, your honour.’
‘Sharp of you, Dutchy. There’s a certain cove who frequents this place I’m told, and he’s one I would welcome a word with.’
‘You’ve now’t to worry about, Dutchy,’ Peddler hooted. ‘None of these nancies will lay a hand on an ugly sod like you.’
The response came with no rancour, hard anyway with Dutchy’s accent, but it did with a casually raised fist. ‘Happen I might turn you a bit less becoming than you be now, mate.’
‘Work cut oot there, Dutchy.’
Looking along the street, Brazier picked up, in the dim light, the head of John Hawker, making his way through the crowds, acknowledging, by the way he was nodding, those who knew him. But he had not spotted Brazier, who had whipped off his distinctive naval headgear to keep it so. Given the possibility Hawker might be responsible for his beating, while he was with some of his old barge crew this presented a chance to exact retribution on the spot. Tempted, he knew he had to be certain of his guilt: he could not act on mere suspicion, and besides, who was to say in this street, where he was on home turf, how many folk might come to his aid?
‘Step back and make yourselves small.’
It was a reflection of time served together and dangers faced that all three obeyed without question. Indeed, they followed their captain’s lead in engaging with various folk using Middle Street as a place to trade, in Peddler’s case a whore of neither beauty nor youth, who carried in her hand a long whip, while on her head sat a pair of Viking horns, leaving no doubt of the kind of service she was offering.
‘I’d stick to the Mollies, Peddler,’ crowed Dutchy, ‘all you’ll get there, my old dear, is a sore arse.’
It was not fear that had Brazier avoid a confrontation, but curiosity, thinking he might tail the sod, for it was just possible by doing so he would find out something of interest. He could not avoid noting there was a confident bustle about Hawker, while his physical presence had folk move out of his way, at least those who knew him. That did not apply to tars come for a run ashore and, once or twice, he could be seen to give a push to clear a path, ignoring any protests that ensued.
Hawker got in amongst the Mollies, before pushing his way down the alley. Brazier’s surprise did not last long: he had called on Saoirse to collect taxes due and the activities of a place selling drink would not exempt them from the need to likewise cough up to the government. But it did put paid to any idea he had of going in there himself to seek out Daisy Trotter.
‘Best get Peddler away, Capt’n, afore he strikes a bargain with the lash lady.’
Dutchy’s plea made Brazier look, to see the whore laughing, her shoulders and, even more, her massive bosom shaking with mirth.
‘There he goes, ay?’ Logan responded, shaking his head. ‘He’ll be getting wan frae that whip fer not a penny spent, you watch, ah tell ye.’
‘Navy will do that for him, Cocky,’ Dutchy opined, ‘any time he chooses, an’ I’ll put my sweet self forward to swing the cat.’
‘Time to move on,’ Brazier called, thinking it a bad idea to just stand in the street with Hawker bound to exit in short order. This took them to the Hope and Anchor, a tavern occupying the corner of a sizeable square, in the middle of which sat a cock-fighting pit surrounded by an eager and noisy audience, with wagers being placed and accepted. As Brazier pushed his way into the tavern, Cocky and Peddler peeled off to join the crowd, leaving Brazier to buy tankards of porter before he and Dutchy sought a place to sit.
‘What were all that about, Capt’n?’
‘You know, Dutchy, with your height I reckoned you would have spotted him too.’
‘Can’t gainsay that, your honour, but I can enquire as to us havin’ done so, what happened to the notion of clouting the bugger round the ear?’
‘In time, maybe.’
Hawker was inside what Basil the Bulgar liked to call his palace of entertainment, which others referred to as the Flea Pit. The basement was a packed and noisy brick-lined room, in which perspiration ran down the walls. He had some trouble in getting to talk to the owner, whom he found on a settle with his arm round a young and pretty glassy-eyed lad, naked to the waist. That arm was soon detached: Basil could see Hawker wanted to talk and that was not to be done in public, or where they could be overheard.
Following Basil up a set of stairs, they were so steep they needed a rope on which hands could haul so before Hawker’s eyes was a fat and waddling posterior belonging to a sad old man, an impression not improved face to face in the extravagant bedroom. Basil was bald and remarkably ugly, with jowls no longer firm enough to hold to his bones, added to brownish once-freckled skin which was now so pitted it looked as though it had been a target for the pellets from a fowling piece.
Slack, rouged lips and yellowed teeth were added to a high-pitched, effete voice, the eyes not helped by the kohl with which he sought to highlight and render them striking, for the effect was the opposite. Before John Hawker was a man who pretended to be joyous and outrageous in public, which acted to mask the misery of a life in which he endlessly sought affection, only to reject it when forthcoming. He was also, quite palpably, in some fear of his visitor, evident in the vocal tremor as, sure it was not time to pay his taxes, he asked the purpose.
‘I need words with Daisy.’
‘Haven’t seen him,’ was the piped, nervy response. ‘Days past since he called in; a week even.’
Hawker thought it unlikely that would alter. After what had happened, Deal would be reckoned too dangerous to casually enter, but he was damned − Tulkington or no Tulkington − if he was going to go grubbing to Worth to get the message over himself.
‘You must have ways to get to him.’
‘Never even tried, dearie,’ was waved away with a limp hand gesture.
‘Then it’s time you did. Not asking you to go personal, but send someone to him. Say I want to talk and do it as soon as sun-up tomorrow.’
‘But—’
‘You don’t “but” me, Basil, for you will know where it leads. Find a body to take the message that I will be in the Griffin’s Head at noontime. Also, that he has my word for his safety.’
‘You’re going to talk about Harry?’
‘None of you concern, but there’s a law that has words on what you get up to here, an’ you won’t want to hear ’em from the dock. Mind, life of a prison hulk might suit folk of your stamp.’
A fearful Basil the Bulgar, who in truth hailed from Dover, was left shaking as he heard Hawker’s boots pounding down the bare wooden stairs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Edward Brazier awoke at his usual time, soon fully aware he was in for a demanding day. He was determined to go to Cottington Court, despite the fact Betsey and he were due to meet at Quebec House that very afternoon. These visits took place regularly now, to maintain the fiction that his abode was one of their two main places of contact. It was not just a question of an inability to wait: what he wanted to talk about had to be done in private.
Joe Lascelles brought him a morning coffee, along with his grin, to be asked about the weather.
‘Wind west sou’ west and t
he sky fair. Looks to be a good day in the offing, but cloudy.’
That had been a worry; he had sensed no coming rain on the way home the previous night, but you could never be sure on the coast, the conditions being so rapidly changeable.
‘Towels are laid out, your honour.’
Routine had been quickly established with Joe about, almost to the level it was at sea, where the naval day could be unchanging if nothing untoward appeared to disrupt it. He would don a gown and his old ducks and head for the beach to swim, returning to a bathtub laid out and water warmed, with which to wash the salt from his body and hair. He would then shave, by which time Joe would have cooked and laid out his breakfast, the others taking theirs in the rear parlour.
The ability to entertain had been tested and passed, so he could claim to occupy a fully functioning house. Joe Lascelles provided excellent food, though nothing fancy – not necessary anyway – with no shortage of game or meats. He had also educated his shipmates, with varying success, in the art of serving dinner and pouring the fine wines he had purchased in the Lower Valley Road.
Braddock had been with his wife, with Vincent Flaherty present and able to keep the conversation off purely service matters. On a separate occasion he had entertained the officers commanding the ships of the Downs Squadron, drink flowing as he recounted his exploits, in turn required to listen to those of his guests. The only person yet to dine, one whom he wished most to entertain, was Betsey. Yet the thought of her Aunt Sarah being present for the time a decent proper meal would take to consume was not something he could face.
Breakfast consumed, he was ready to depart for the Naval Yard stables, all four mounts now kept there at his expense. So were his bargemen, with only Peddler reluctant to mount a pony and unhappy the whole way. Thus the road was taken at a walk, lest he fall off, his captain spending the entire time in imagined discussions-cum-arguments with Betsey. These ranged over any number of possibilities, did little good and were in fact possibly futile: with no prior arrangement, she might not be where he hoped to find her.
Leaving the others outside the broken gate, Brazier squeezed through to take up station within the bushes, given the slight possibility Betsey might not be alone, in which case he would have to retreat. The dogs would be the first sign and there was another worry, for they had become familiar and, if they picked up his scent, they would surely flush him out.
He had to pull back when he saw the Reverend Moyle heading in the direction of the main house, his deliberate way progressing, each leading foot carefully planted, an indication that he had perhaps already been at the bottle or was possibly still recovering from the excesses of the previous day
A look at his watch, once Moyle had disappeared, told him the time was approaching when Betsey should pass this way, he once more engaged in mock arguments or imagined comforting in the face of distress. This ceased when he heard a bout of barking and a minute later Betsey appeared. For a moment, Brazier’s courage deserted him, yet he knew he must steel himself. He had an hour, at most, before they would have to part so she could return to the house, and he could not go the whole day in speculation. Assured she was alone, he stepped out to greet her.
Jolted in alarm, she put a hand to her throat. ‘Edward!’
‘Forgive me, but I wanted to see you alone.’
‘I am happy that you do so, but curious as to why you carry such a look of concern.’
He damned himself and quickly altered his features. It was not his intention to immediately raise the reason for calling, that being a subject that would have to be broached with subtlety.
‘Fear of discovery, shall we say. I saw your divine passing a few moments ago.’
‘We have a meeting already arranged for today. Should I be pleased or angry at your impatience?’
It was gentle mockery, not true complaint: an indication of how they had moved on since that first stilted walk. The joshing he would normally have taken as encouraging, but not now. For all his jumbled thoughts on the way, he was at a loss to know how to start the necessary conversation and, to his ear, the words he chose sounded very feeble.
‘Do you think of Jamaica on a cloudy day such as this?’
‘I do so even in bright sunshine.’
He let her lead the conversation, in which she recalled the Caribbean climate and how she had easily taken to it, for abundance made life easy, if somewhat soporific. The tenor of her daily life was reprised and compared to her present circumstances, until he felt his impatience mounting, this to the point where his interruption came out as brusque.
‘And how fares Henry?’
Asking about her brother changed her expression from smiling ease to one of confusion; he was commonly the last subject either of them wished to raise.
‘If you’re asking has he altered in his opposition, the answer must be, not as far as I can see. That said, our connection and hopes are not mentioned so I have reason to believe the mere passage of time is our ally. He will come round to acceptance eventually, I’m sure.’
‘As he did with your late husband?’
Betsey stopped, obliging him to do likewise, to look up at him. ‘You are in a strange mood this morning.’
‘Am I?’ It was a weak response, which would do nothing to get him to where he wanted and needed to go. ‘I’m curious, that’s all, as to how long it took your brother to put aside his objections in that case? I assume you wore him down.’
Betsey emitted a soft chuckle and moved on again. ‘There was nothing gradual about it. I won’t say he affected a complete volte-face from one day to the next, but it was not far off the case. I suspect it followed on from the discovery of what Stephen had inherited. Henry ever has an eye for profit so perhaps he came to see advantage in the union, where he had seen nothing of that sort before.’
Seeking to lighten his own mood, Brazier joked, ‘Then happen I should acquire some plantations myself.’
Her response was pithy. ‘Were I not set on selling, you might have had mine on marriage.’
‘That’s the first time you have spoken so positively in that regard.’
Brazier knew he had got the tone badly wrong.
‘Do I sense reservation on your part that I should?’
‘Nothing could be further from my mind.’
‘Something is on your mind, and I sense troubling you.’
‘Have you come to know me so well?’
That was equivocation, which made him reflect on his lack of pluck. He had attacked and boarded an armed enemy ship with less reserve and more brio than he was displaying now.
‘If you have become prone to reservations, I would be obliged if you would say so.’
That being accompanied by a direct look, he decided he could no longer avoid raising the vital question and he did so with no preamble. ‘What do you know of your brother’s business affairs?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘He’s obviously successful and one wonders how that is managed.’
‘I try to know as little as possible, Edward, and always have, given the gloomy effect it has on Henry. I am aware, though only vaguely, that he is involved in many spheres of activity, but I don’t enquire as to what they are. Anyway, I have been absent for several years, have I not?’
‘And you never have taken an interest, for instance, before any talk of your marriage?’
‘Where is this leading, Edward?’
‘You must have wondered, as I have, at the vehemence with which Henry objected to my arrival, which mirrored his original attitude to your late husband.’
‘It took him by surprise, Edward. If he has not yet come round, I think I can say he has mellowed somewhat.’
‘In Stephen’s case, if I may call him that, Henry manifested similar objections. That could hardly be said to have come as a surprise to him, given you were sweet on each other from childhood and he had known the man you wished to marry for years.’
‘He can be cantankerous.’
�
�There I cannot dispute with you.’
‘Is that the reason for your surprise visit, to dispute with me?’
‘No. I seek some explanation for his behaviour.’
‘As I have said, I believe he will soon be reconciled.’
‘Fully so, to the point of being present and welcoming me openly to his house?’
A slow head shake was her response, adding, ‘Given your contrasting natures, I do not see you as ever being friends.’
‘Which prompts me to look for a reason, given I cannot accept either jealousy or what you choose to call his controlling nature. Let me say, if you don’t already know, it troubles me greatly.’
‘Tell me I am wrong, if I say it seems you’re looking for an excuse to—?’
She failed to finish, could not bring herself to say ‘break off’. Brazier, who was horrified at the train of thought he had set in motion, looked at her lovely face, now carrying an expression he had not witnessed before. Betsey was hurt and in no mood to disguise it, which had him reach out and gently take her hand.
‘Don’t assume anything of that nature. If I ask questions, it’s out of concern and affection.’ A deep breath was required before he could continue. ‘Information has come my way that your brother may not be as upright as he appears.’
Hurt turned to confusion. ‘It has been intimated to me, by what I reckon to be a reliable source, he has control of much of the smuggling on this coast.’
‘Edward,’ she said, with a touch of condescension, ‘no one controls smuggling on this coast; it is the occasional occupation of everyone who can sail a boat.’
‘The rumours regarding Henry do not fit with your contention. I have to also say, he is rumoured to have inherited his prominence in the trade, which means some of the same allegations can be laid at the door of your father.’ He jerked her hand to stop her responding, desperate to get out what he wanted to say. ‘And it is also said, your brother is no stranger to the use of violence.’
The Contraband Shore Page 27
