The Contraband Shore

by David Donachie

  ‘Someone has been having a laugh at your expense, Edward. My brother, outside a glare, would struggle to harm a flea. He abhors violence.’

  ‘He may have visited that very thing on me. I told you I fell off my horse trying for a fence. I have to say now, I lied about that.’ Her even more confused expression demanded explanation. ‘Call it my pride. I did not want to admit I’d been the victim of a serious assault by a pair of toughs.’

  ‘I am at a loss to see the connection.’

  ‘I have a suspicion it may have been carried out on the orders of Henry.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I am informed he has the ability to direct such things and I’ve apparently not been the only victim. There are others who have physically felt his displeasure; indeed it falls on anyone who disputes with him, as I did on my first visit. Is it not a coincidence, at the very least, that the event referred to followed on from my warning he should be careful in his language?’

  ‘This, Edward, is surely nonsense.’

  ‘We have little time, Betsey, and I have a tale to tell, so I require you to listen. Please tell me you will do so.’

  There was a lengthy pause before she nodded, which had Brazier speaking quickly. He reprised on everything Saoirse had said, caveats included, though he was not fool enough to even hint at the gender of the source. Betsey listened without interruption, though there was no eye contact now. Her head had dropped, leaving him unsure as to how it was being taken. That lasted until she looked up and fixed him with a firm stare.

  ‘You have no proof of this?’

  ‘I have not. From what I’m told, Henry is too wily to allow any. Everything he commands is carried out by others.’

  ‘And how does all this rumour affect your opinion of me?’

  ‘Not at all,’ was said with as much conviction as he could muster. ‘But I fear this is not a repeat of his behaviour with your late husband.’

  ‘You seem very sure.’

  ‘Your brother will seek to put insurmountable barriers in our way, rather than have me as a family relative. I am a serving naval officer, one who carried out the duties of interdiction of smuggling in the Caribbean; that alone would not endear me to him if what I have been told is true. I would find it impossible to stand by and witness the running of contraband here at home and that applies even more to condoning the kind violence to which I suspect I have been exposed. I need to know if what I have been told is true.’

  ‘But you must know the solution is simple, Edward.’

  There was weariness in his response. ‘Please don’t suggest I challenge him.’

  ‘No, but I shall.’

  That he had not anticipated. ‘Would you take my word that such a thing could be unwise?’

  ‘So I’m to be left with what you impute and to merely accept as fact that what you have been told − by a person who I notice you do not name − and which is supposition based on rumour, should be treated as fact?’

  ‘I know I ask a great deal.’

  ‘You do, but when you heard all this did you think I might be aware?’ The tone changed from query to bitter. ‘Or even perhaps complicit?’

  He was faced with the one question he had no desire to answer, yet no great imagination would be required to see it as a possibility he would have been forced to consider. Given there was no way of avoidance he could only reply, ‘I doubted it, but I also needed to know.’

  ‘Why not ask outright?’

  ‘Perhaps for fear of the answer.’

  ‘I’m not sure I should oblige such a lack of faith.’

  ‘If you accept what I have said to you as conceivably true, positions reversed, what would you have done?’

  ‘I can scare credit what you say about Henry, but to impute the same behaviour to my dear father—’

  ‘I didn’t set out to offend you, Betsey. I care only for our future.’

  ‘You say you were in receipt of a beating. I am abound to ask where this took place.’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘It would if it was in or hard by the Old Playhouse.’

  That was a consequence of being truthful on which he had not reckoned and it required deflection. ‘Hardly the point.’

  Seeing her swell up, he knew a rebuke was coming, for he had more or less confirmed her suspicions. ‘While I, Captain Brazier, in the presence of someone who finds it comforting to lie to someone for whom he claims to have feelings, am left to wonder if there is one.’

  ‘Betsey?’

  ‘No!’ That came with a hand to push him away, while it was clear she was on the verge of tears. ‘How could you countenance even the notion I would know of what you claim and be part of it?’

  ‘No one can control their thoughts.’

  ‘You know your way to the gate; please oblige me by making your way there without me. And, just so you are not inconvenienced by the freedom of your thoughts, I shall not be calling at Quebec House this afternoon.’

  Men who had served with Edward Brazier for years knew his moods. The black expression when he rejoined them precluded any jolly enquires as to how he had fared. He mounted Bonnie in silence and kicked her into a trot without a word said, leaving the others to catch up, Peddler never quite managing to do so.

  Brazier knew he had made a complete hash of things, so very far from what he had hoped and imagined would be the outcome, to the point where he reckoned his hopes were sunk. He would write, that was all he could do, in the hope that a penned explanation would check the urges that came from a verbal exchange requiring an immediate response.

  ‘Here I am,’ he said out loud in a cry to the heavens, ‘without a prospect of happiness, without a ship and, very likely, without a career.’

  ‘What’s that, Capt’n?’ Dutchy Holland called, he being just close enough to hear the voice if not the words.

  ‘None of your damn business,’ would have carried to the mainmast cap.

  ‘Hud yer wheest, Dutchy,’ was Cocky Logan’s advice, which might have been taken as good advice, if the man so addressed had understood it.

  The Griffin’s Head was not as crowded as it had been the day Edward Brazier first came through Chillenden, but it was busy, it being one of the places Tulkington’s customers came to transact for their smuggled goods, most of it ordered and paid for in advance. These people would fan out all over Kent selling what they acquired at a profit, so high were the taxes being evaded. All operated outside the law, but with little fear: the agency of enforcement was too weak to cover the coast, let alone inland roads, in a society that would not even begin to cooperate, seeing such duties as an evil government imposition.

  John Hawker was still in a black mood and, for the first time, the object was his employer. The brains to master things he would grant Henry Tulkington, not even his father had raised the game to such heights, but the man should have trusted him on Spafford. Such reflections brought on the possibility of it extending to other matters, which was enough to have him reprising every recent conversation.

  His mind was on such matters when he espied Jaleel Trotter in the doorway, his watery eyes ranging round the room, the suspicion on his thin face obvious. What had taken a long time to arrange previously was being demanded in haste. But with Harry in Tulkington’s hands there was no choice. Spying Hawker in a booth – he was hard to miss – Daisy made his way through the crowded tables to face a held-up hand.

  ‘Your knife, Daisy. I know you ever has it on you, so afore you get close, take it out for putting on the table.’

  ‘You won’t be defenceless.’

  That was not denied. Another knife and a short billy club were produced and laid out. Seeing those, Daisy Trotter obliged, to have Hawker push everything right to the middle of the table.

  ‘Other side,’ was demanded with a hand to indicate where Trotter should sit, far enough away from the weapons to render them equally useless. As Daisy slid into the bench seat, Hawker enquired, ‘What’s happened to your nose, mate – been st
icking it up somebody’s arse?’

  ‘What have you done to Harry?’

  Hawker chortled. ‘Nothin’, more’s the pity.’

  ‘I ain’t come to bargain for him, Hawker. It would have to be Dan for that.’

  ‘Is the useless bugger worth the effort?’

  Trotter was not going to acknowledge that as true. He had never seen Harry as worth much effort, but he had cared for him for Dan’s sake. He was less enamoured of him now, after the headbutt and the subsequent embarrassment.

  ‘Tulkington wants to meet with Spafford; same place, same rules.’

  Daisy was sharp enough to pick up the lack of a mister. Hawker had ever been respectful when using his employer’s name. Why not now? Did it hint at a rift, and could he push?

  ‘Reckon he’d agree if you let Harry go.’

  ‘Thought you said you was not here to bargain.’

  ‘Don’t stop me venturing an idea, do it? Happen Dan won’t agree with that not being a condition.’

  Hawker leant forward, his expression angry. ‘What makes him think he’s in a position to bargain? Happen I might just chop Harry up then descend on Worth and string the lot of you up from the rafters.’

  ‘Happy for you to try, John. There’s a couple just a’waiting to put a ball in your head as it comes round the door.’

  ‘Tulkington wants to talk, an’ don’t go enquiring what about, ’cause I don’t know.’

  ‘I have to ask Dan.’

  ‘Tell him, for there’s no askin’. Top of the mill hill at noon tomorrow, with us providing the coach to meet. You’ll be safe on Tulkington’s word, which I wouldn’t gift you if it were me.’

  ‘Will you bring Harry?’

  ‘We might.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The talk with his sister had been difficult for Henry Tulkington, it being of a kind he had not been obliged to endure for many a year, certainly not since the loss of his father who had ever been an uncomfortable presence in his life as he grew to manhood, given whatever his legitimate son did never seemed good enough.

  If he reckoned himself strong as a negotiator, he was less gifted at dissimulation with a person as close to him as Elisabeth. Where other men might have laughed off what she was enquiring about, he lacked the skill for manufactured amusement and pretend ridicule, making his denials too assertive. He could not be sure, by the time she left, they had been taken as truth, but it took no time at all to identify who must be the source of her information.

  It could only have come from Brazier: Elisabeth had contact with other people, but certainly none who would even have alluded to his more clandestine business affairs even if they knew of them, and very few did with certainty. His Aunt Sarah would not be the culprit. Quite apart from his near certainty of her being equally ignorant, she would never dare challenge him when, for her, a place in the workhouse would be the best she could hope for.

  Should he have challenged Elisabeth regarding her damned nuisance of a naval captain? On reflection he was glad he had not, for to do so – the mere mention of his name – might have given credence to the suggestion he had been responsible for arranging his beating. At least he was no longer claiming a riding accident, but that did leave the conundrum of what to do about the sod, given the options once floated with John Hawker had evaporated. If anything happened to Brazier now, Elisabeth would immediately lay it at his door.

  Troubled merely by the fact of Brazier’s arrival and purpose, he was possibly a greater cause for concern than originally envisaged. He had visited Walmer Castle, while Henry Tulkington could only speculate on what he and William Pitt might have discussed. A letter had arrived from his Uncle Dirley this very morning, which shed a more worrying light on that meeting. It informed him Brazier was under a cloud of royal disfavour, one which more or less debarred him from future employment, this for a man who did not come across as the type to welcome inactivity.

  Was he conniving with Pitt for a new role, akin to the duty he had carried out in the Caribbean against the colonials? What did William Pitt know or suspect? Was Elisabeth just a ploy? For a fellow given to worry, these were deep concerns.

  According to Dirley, and in the same missive, Elisabeth had written to ask him to find out, on the possibility of forthcoming nuptials, about selling her plantations, enquiring as to what price they might fetch and how long would it take for them to be disposed of, so she was clearly planning to remain in England, no doubt wedded to Brazier.

  It would have troubled Henry more if he had known to where Elisabeth had gone immediately afterwards, riding out on Canasta and leading another pony with the excuse of returning her rental to Mr Flaherty. She was determined to call upon Annabel Colpoys. Since getting the cold shoulder from such an old friend, Betsey had searched her mind for a reason, something to explain the alteration in reception from one day to the next, never mind the subsequent rebuffs.

  How could it be? Surely Annabel would not take Henry’s part against her, when they used to guy him as young girls and with not too much subtlety. It was one of the few advantages gifted to her sex, who were seen as frivolous and silly by men and boys, creatures who were unaware of how the platitudes drawn from the men, as well as those gaucheries extracted from the boys, brought on later giggles.

  The Colpoys’ gate was opened without comment, which was a plus; at least there were no instructions to deny her entry should she call. Likewise both mounts were taken without even a nervous glance, so the rap on the brass knocker of Long Farm House was loud and confident, the door soon opened by the head servant, the fellow who had been witness to her previous embarrassing departure. Suspecting a request to see Annabel might be refused, Betsey pushed past him in a way that left him no time to react, to then burst in on her friend, finding Annabel at her embroidery, quick to shut the door to cut off prying eyes.

  ‘Annabel, I cannot abide that you will not speak to me, especially when I’m at loss to know why.’

  ‘It’s not fitting that you should just barge in here.’

  ‘It’s not only fitting, Annabel, it is required, for if I cannot ask you in public, I must do so in private. What have I done to turn you against me?’

  ‘I have not turned against you, Betsey.’

  ‘The evidence of the last weeks does not support such an assertion. You ignore me and so does Roger: Lord above, not even your children are allowed to speak to me.’

  ‘I fear I’m unable to explain.’

  ‘You must, Annabel, for I will not depart this room until you do. I suspect that will not be welcomed if Roger returns from his fields.’

  That Annabel blushed deeply and began to fiddle with her needle, while avoiding her eye, gave Betsey the clue she sought. ‘Is he at the seat of this?’

  ‘He is my husband,’ was the whispered response.

  ‘You are − were − my friend.’

  Annabel roused herself to fight back. ‘Perhaps if you had married a stronger man, you would know what it is to obey a spouse. But no, you could twist sweet Stephen around your little finger, which is no doubt why you wanted him as a husband.’

  ‘You have been unkind to me, but that is worse by far: wounding from a woman who helped as a maid of honour to give me away. I grant you Stephen was not like Roger, but he was man enough. If Roger is at the seat of this, I require you tell what his cause is.’

  ‘Your damned brother, that’s what it is,’ Annabel spat.

  Blurted out it was, very obviously, immediately regretted. Annabel put her hands to her mouth, while the look of shock on her face, as well as eyes filling with fear, stood as testimony to the realisation of what she had done. Betsey moved to take one of those hands off her mouth and hold it tight, lowering herself onto the settle beside her.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You must.’

  ‘Roger forbade me to receive you, Betsey. Please accept I hated myself for acceding to it.’

  ‘What was his reason? You blame my
brother. Why?’

  The tears began to flow as Annabel’s resolve weakened, so what followed was much interrupted by the need to both clear them and for her to blow her nose. Much was said about male pride, about a good man laid low and unable to admit the cause even to his wife, but it could not be a coincidence that Roger was in a legal dispute with Henry at the time. High words had been exchanged, with Roger Colpoys swearing he would see Henry damned and horsewhip him if required. That was until he came home, covered in blood. The suit was never mentioned again and nor was the Tulkington name derided.

  ‘Yet you both attended my fete.’

  ‘Roger did not want to go but feared it would smack of a rebuke if he declined.’

  ‘So Henry, you suspect, was responsible for what happened to Roger?’

  ‘I cannot say with certainty your brother was the cause, Betsey. Any attempt to force the truth from Roger is unwelcome and I’m not sure he knows, for he had been drinking on that night. For me, I can only guess.’

  It was a sad friend of many years’ standing who replied, as well as one who had so recently talked to Edward Brazier on the same subject. ‘You may have no need to do more.’

  ‘You must go, Betsey, if Roger—’ Another sniffle. ‘I fear he will chastise me harshly. The servants are bound to say you called.’

  ‘Then we must give him no cause to be angry.’

  Any observer would have said both women played their parts to perfection, for now it was Betsey who appeared to be sobbing as Annabel came close to physically throwing her out of her house, with the necessary imprecations to go with it. This was followed with an instruction to the servant who had opened the door never to let her across the threshold again.

  They had, of course, arranged a place to meet away from prying eyes and nosy servants. Annabel was quick to hide in her sewing box the little sketch showing the location of the broken gate. Roger would never find it, for it was in a place he would not deign to look.

  Betsey had met Vincent Flaherty at Quebec House on one occasion, he dragged in when she visited, in an attempt to lighten, with his Irish banter, an atmosphere ever made heavy by Sarah Lovell. She could, through him, get a message to Edward, one in which she would not confirm his suspicions regarding her brother but neither would she deny they might be true. He was asked to use the gate the next morning, with a gnomic message that she had something of great import to say.