The sheepish silence confirmed the accusation.
‘If the tide be taking a single of these barrels, not one of you buffle-headed dunties be getting his wages!’ Sam shouted.
Immediately the fishermen set to work, throwing the half-anker barrels down a line, from one man to the next, until they reached the boat.
The tide, Sam judged, would grant them no more than fifteen minutes’ working time. The Nancy, slightly further out, was already beginning to awaken, her hull shifting like a sleepy whale in shallow waters.
‘Be moving whip-sticks,’ Sam ordered, wishing that they worked with the same diligence as the Frenchmen who had loaded and unloaded the cart.
Finally, the fishermen sank down onto the cleared sand, grateful that the task was over.
Sam approached Tom and issued the same warning which he did every time that he was not to accompany the contraband back across the Channel: two hundred barrels, untouched by the pilfering fingers of drunk fishermen, must be landed tonight at Romney Marsh. Then, with half of the crew on-board, Sam climbed into the Nancy and set sail for Folkestone, leaving the rest of the men waiting until darkness to land the goods.
Sam trekked the three-mile journey from Ransley’s house to his own cottage in just under an hour. Having disembarked the Nancy at Folkestone, he had ridden one of Ransley’s horses to the Bourne Tap, confirming that the smuggling run was all set for the night. He now had over three hours until he needed to make his way to the Royal Oak in Newchurch, the meeting place for the two hundred strong men, pulled from the surrounding countryside for tonight’s smuggling run.
‘Daddy!’ John and Ellen yelled, jumping up from their game of spinning tops and hugging his legs.
‘Be a-leaving him, for goodness’ sake,’ Hester said, appearing in the parlour.
‘Did you be going to France, Daddy?’ John asked.
Sam nodded.
‘When I can, can I be coming with you?’ John asked.
‘And me!’ Ellen joined in.
Sam smiled. ‘When you be a bit older.’
‘Not on your life!’ Hester interjected. ‘You be a-getting yourself out on them fields and earning yourself a living blessed by the good Lord.’ John turned his nose up at the idea and returned to spinning the wooden top on the floor. ‘You be back out again tonight?’ Hester asked, a sourness to her question.
‘Aye,’ Sam answered. ‘That be right.’
‘Will you be shooting the preventative men?’ John asked, making his fingers into a pistol and pretending to fire at his mother.
‘Let’s be hoping not.’
‘Be a-stopping that,’ Hester snapped, angrily slapping John’s hands. Her furious eyes met with Sam’s in a look which perfectly conveyed her unspoken thoughts. ‘Ann not be with you?’
‘I bain’t seen her all day. Expect she be having herself a nice time some place,’ he said.
Hester took a step closer to Sam and, with narrowed eyes, spoke to him quietly. ‘What does she be a-doing with all her wages?’
Sam thought for a moment. ‘She be giving us her lodgings—’ he smiled at something that occurred to him, ‘—she be paying my wages.’
‘How in the Lord’s good name do you be a-reckoning a godless black-tan like Ann Fothergill be paying your wages?’
‘She be spending most of her money up at the Bourne Tap, putting money in old Ransley’s purse that he be passing back to me.’
Hester seemed to mull for some time on what he had said. ‘Bain’t you not noticed that she be less… lost in liquor these past months?’
‘I don’t be knowing such things,’ Sam said with a disinterested shrug. In truth, though, now that he thought about it, he was aware that he had seen much less of Ann either at home or at her other favourite haunts, the Walnut Tree Inn and the Bourne Tap. Where she was going and what she was doing with her money, however, he had no idea.
Chapter Seventeen
27th June 1823, Dover, Kent
Ann entered the building on St James’s Street without a trace of the self-consciousness which had been manifest in her first few visits there. She crept into the rear of the grand hall and gave an apologetic nod to Miss Bowler for her seemingly inadvertent premature arrival. It was the same routine every week: she would arrive early, standing at the back with a fixed smile and a look of near boredom, as though she were critical of what went on here, when in fact she was hungrily absorbing whatever lesson Miss Bowler was delivering to the previous class.
‘And so, to the end of the lesson,’ Miss Bowler said in a mock-dramatic tone, holding a book aloft in one hand, as she twirled around at the front of the room to the soft amusement of the dozen or so girls. She drew in a lengthy breath and raised the book. ‘The Universal Epitaph.’ She paused and glanced theatrically around the room before beginning:
‘No flattering praises daub my stone,
My frailties and my faults to hide;
My faults and failings are all known—I liv’d in sin—in sin I died.
And oh! condemn me not, I pray,
You who my sad confession view;
But ask your soul, if it can say, That I’m a viler man than you.’
Miss Bowler snapped the book shut. ‘Good day to you, girls.’
The class murmured their goodbyes and began to file from the room.
Miss Bowler strolled energetically towards Ann, offering her a delightful smile. ‘Ann—welcome.’
‘That were a nice poem, Miss Bowler. I be knowing a fair few folk what could be having that on their graves.’
Miss Bowler grinned. ‘John Clare. A lovely collection entitled Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery. Come and sit down,’ Miss Bowler encouraged, pulling out a chair in front of her desk and setting down a clean slate and a fresh piece of white chalk.
Ann sat and marvelled at them, remembering Miss Bowler’s bewildering prattle on her first visit here: ‘Simple geology harnessed for the betterment of humankind,’ she had enthused. ‘What happens when you combine a piece of metamorphic rock—’ here she had picked up the slate, ‘—with a piece of sedimentary rock?’ Then she had picked up the chalk, leaving Ann utterly baffled and wishing that she had not bothered to go there at all. Miss Bowler had smiled at her confusion, which had drawn an irritated flushing to Ann’s cheeks. ‘Literacy. You have the ability to read and write!’ She had then put the chalk to the slate and had drawn a large shape. ‘One letter like this letter, A—’ Miss Bowler then added two more shapes with a flourish, ‘—becomes a word: Ann. One word becomes a sentence, which in turn becomes a paragraph and then into a story, or a letter, or a recount, or a biography! From these two humble pieces of rock come poetry, newspapers and books; wonderful books on every subject imaginable!’
Ann had sat quite still, listening to Miss Bowler’s enthusiastic speech, her initial impatience having been quelled. Still, though, she had questioned herself about being there, again wondering what good an ability to read and write would do for someone like her.
Miss Bowler had then rubbed a piece of damp cloth over the slate. ‘We’re going to start with the first two letters in Greek, alpha and beta—alphabet.’
Ann pulled herself free from the memory of that first visit, startled by the progress which she had made to this point. She picked up the chalk and held it, as Miss Bowler had shown her, poised above the slate.
‘Are you ready?’ Miss Bowler asked with a kindly smile.
‘I be ready, Miss,’ Ann replied.
‘I am ready,’ Miss Bowler corrected.
‘I am ready,’ Ann parroted.
‘Good.’ Miss Bowler straightened her back and lowered her shoulders. ‘My friend’s dog sat at the gate.’ She enunciated slowly and clearly, then she repeated the phrase twice more whilst Ann wrote down the words.
Ann handed the slate over to Miss Bowler and watched as she read.
‘Very good, Ann! Just one mistake: you’ve spelt it f-r-e-n-d, the way that it sounds, but it needs an i before the e.’
‘Because why?’ Ann questioned.
Miss Bowler laughed. ‘A very perceptive question. The rather convoluted reason is because three hundred years ago many of the first English book printers were Dutchmen, not used to our language. Sometimes they used Dutch spellings, adding an h after a g, like the word ‘ghost’ or ‘ghastly’ and sometimes they deliberately lengthened words like ‘friend’ or ‘head’, which suddenly acquired additional letters which served no purpose whatsoever.’
‘Because why?’ she said again.
‘Because they were paid by the numbers of lines they printed; thus, the longer the word, the more money they earnt.’
‘Why don’t we be getting rid of them other letters now, then?’ Ann asked.
‘Another super question, Ann, but one which I fear is not in my capability to answer.’
Ann, finding herself strangely interested in this new peculiar world of words, was disappointed by Miss Bowler’s answer. She wanted to press her further, but Miss Bowler said, ‘Right, wipe the slate clean and I shall dictate another phrase.’
After one hour precisely, Ann paid Miss Bowler four shillings, and then left the building with the same sense of lament which she had felt after previous lessons had ended. Inside that hall Ann had keenly felt the sense of separation from her old life. Sitting opposite Miss Bowler, who had never sought to ask about her past or present, she was a different woman; a woman who could read and write with the possibility of a different future to that which destiny seemed to have prescribed her. Within the seclusion of that room, Ann was able to quarantine her past and view it as though it had belonged to somebody else, and she was merely observing those pitiful misfortunes from afar. But now that she was back out on the familiar streets of Dover, she struggled to hold on to the idea that she could be somebody else, somebody better. The notion was so terribly fragile in her mind, like a glass egg that might shatter at any given moment.
Ann walked quickly, crossing back and forth across the street in an erratic manner which she knew would make anyone watching her believe her to be drunk or quite mad. But she did it for a reason: to avoid the seductive beery plumes of tobacco which wafted out from the various public houses which she needed to pass in order to reach the quay.
On Strond Street she stopped. In front of her, from where she would need to catch the coach, was the Packet Boat Inn. She caught herself feeling the weight of the guineas in her purse and dropped her hand away. It was useless to deny that she craved a glass of rum. Again, she rebuked herself after glancing across to the clock tower, which told her that she had almost two hours yet until the 3pm coach departed for Ashford.
She stared at the inn for a long time, wishing that the coach stop was anywhere else but there. The more she looked at it, the more she knew that she had to go inside. Her thirst would be sated but her purse would be empty and that delicate glass egg, which promised a new future, would be cracked.
Ann forced her eyes away along the line of shops—drapers, tallow chandlers, watchmakers, notaries, bakers, auctioneers and warehouses—which edged the busy quay. Her gaze came to an unexpected halt at one of the businesses. J. Minet, Fector & Co. She strode quickly towards it, sweeping aside the doubts and questions that began to skulk out from that unspecified part of her which begged for alcohol, and marched confidently inside.
The outside of the building, tall and grand with long leaded windows, gave a very different impression to that which Ann now found inside: a small room, brightly painted, yet surprisingly dim. Three bookcases, laden with heavy leather-bound volumes, dominated one wall and at the very end of the room was a long wooden counter, which might well have originated from a public house. Behind it stood two gentlemen in matching grey morning coats and white cravats. They had long but neat hair and both had clipped dark moustaches and a fixed moue. Their shared look of curiosity rebounded off Ann to each other and then back to Ann.
‘May we help you?’ one of them said, stepping forwards and squaring his hands on the counter uncertainly.
‘I be wanting…’ Ann murmured, before correcting herself. ‘I am wanting to open an account.’
The man passed a not-particularly-subtle look of wonderment to his colleague. ‘And what, may I enquire, is the nature of your business?’
‘A surgeon-apothecary,’ she lied.
Both men struggled to contain a light snigger. ‘How enthralling,’ the other man said, now laughing out loud. ‘A surgeon-apothecary.’
‘Yes,’ the first man chimed in, ‘And yet he seems to be dressed as a woman!’
‘A poor woman, at that,’ the other added.
Time seemed to slow down for Ann and she saw the men mocking her, as if their movements were severely slackened by something cloying in their veins and muscles: sand, she imagined. She used the opportunity of extra time to think. She had choices. She did not have to succumb to the internal screams and pleas, which steered her out of this awful place into the Packet Boat Inn to sink a few glasses of rum, only then to return here with a deliverance of coarse invectives. She could return to St James’s Street and politely ask Miss Bowler to accompany her to the bank and assist her in opening an account. She was certain that Miss Bowler would do it and that her station in life would satisfy the two bankers. Somehow, that seemed a worse option, as though the new Ann Fothergill was in some way weak and diffident and wholly reliant on other people, an unwelcome feeling which she had never felt in her entire life. She decided on simplicity and laughed with the men. ‘I don’t be too sure that Mr Henshaw Latham be happy about how long this be taking.’
The men stopped laughing and looked at each other.
‘Mr Latham—the mayor?’ said the one who had first spoken to her in a tone which suggested complete disbelief.
Ann shrugged. ‘That be the man what sent me. He said—’ here she drew on Miss Bowler’s expressions and fancy words, ‘—to go and see the gentlemen at J. Minet and Fector bank and they will open an account for me.’ She looked around her with exaggerated movements. ‘Do this not be J. Minet and Fector bank?’
‘Yes, Madam, it is,’ the other man said flatly. He faced his colleague earnestly. ‘If Mr Latham has recommended us, and if the lady is seeking to deposit, rather than seeking credit, perhaps we could assist.’
A nod of acquiescence from the first man and a false smile to Ann. ‘If I could take some particulars…’
He pulled a large burgundy ledger from below the counter and opened it to a page with printed writing, which made Ann think of the Dutch printers randomly adding letters to make words longer. She wondered if any of those small upside-down words contained any pointless letters. Dipping a white quill into an inkwell beside him, the banker noted down Ann’s name and address, and then asked, ‘And how much will Miss Fothergill be depositing with us, today?’
Ann pulled out her purse and tipped the contents onto the counter.
The banker’s bony index finger began greedily plucking at the coins, drawing them one at a time towards him.
Ann reached out, pulling sufficient money back to cover her coach fare, before grabbing a further six pence from the dwindling pile of cash.
‘Two pounds and five shillings,’ the banker confirmed, writing the amount in the ledger.
‘Thank you,’ Ann said, taking the proffered receipt.
The man placed the tome back under the counter and stood back level with his colleague, both with their hands tucked behind their backs.
Ann stared at them both mistrustfully. She had never handed money to anyone in her life and received nothing in return. She looked at the small piece of paper in her hand, trying to decipher what had been written. She smiled politely and tucked the piece of paper into her purse. ‘Good day,’ she said.
‘Good day, Madam,’ said the banker who had opened the account, with a wintry smile.
‘Please pass our regards to Mayor Latham and tell him that we look forward to seeing him later in the week,’ the other uttered.
Ann sighe
d as she stepped out into the warm afternoon. She was certain that her lies would find her out. But what was the worst that could happen? That they might close her account and hand back her money.
The clock tower struck one-thirty, just as she was looking at it. An hour and a half before the coach would depart; plenty of time for one glass of rum.
Inside the coolness of the Packet Boat Inn, Ann felt herself relax. Muscles, which she hadn’t realised were tense, now slackened. The air in here—thick with the smoky exhalations of unwashed mariners and beer-infused belches of the labouring classes—was somehow easier to breathe than that in the bank. She stood impassively at the bar, awaiting her turn, among those of her kind: slop-sellers, cowmen, hawkers, vagrants and itinerants.
She always kept an eye out for any signs of Jonas Blackwood, but there had been none. She had mentioned the oddity of seeing him among the town’s dignitaries at Alexander Spence’s hanging to both Sam Banister and George Ransley, who both had not seemed especially interested, dismissing the likelihood of it having been him. Now, ten months distant, she too doubted the memory of that day. The figure that her recollection provided her with now was faceless, like a time-worn statue. And yet, as she had pointed out, Jonas had not returned to smuggling since that day.
She heard a coarse laugh and turned with a grin to see the unholy tripartite alliance sitting at the table nearest her: Jacob Reuben, the rope-maker, John Pittock the undertaker and the Dover hangman. ‘You be but awaiting the Grim Reaper?’ Ann asked with a laugh.
The three men looked up, but seemed not to understand, and returned to their beer and—judging by the words which Ann caught—their morbid discussion.
The landlord, Joshua Hoad, served Ann her pint of rum and water, which she carried hurriedly away from the macabre conversation to the other quiet end of the bar. She nodded to the straw-hat makers, Amelia Baxter and Sarah Cramp, then took her first sip of drink. She savoured the liquid in her mouth, then sighed with pleasure as it trickled slowly down the back of her throat, seconds later somehow percolating throughout her entire body.
The Wicked Trade (The Forensic Genealogist Book 7) Page 17
