by Steve Goble
“You manage the Crosskeys by yourself, with a couple of young ones to help with chores.” Spider took a drink and enjoyed the burn as he swallowed. “You seem smart as paint, Missus Bonnymeade. I doubt much escapes your notice.”
Her lips tightened.
“We won’t tell anyone,” Spider said. “Whatever your husband’s business, well, let’s just say my friend here and me probably have done worse. But we’re changing our ways. We just want to find the man who did this to your husband, and the more you tell us the better.”
“You just want to catch the killer,” Odin said pointedly. “Not we. You.”
“I, then,” Spider growled, feeling the liquor and the rising tension. “But if I am going to track him down, I need to know some things. What did your husband have to do with smuggling?”
Mrs. Bonnymeade took another swig, a deep one. “Why are you willing to help me? Tom was not friend to many. You and I have no long friendship. You seem a decent fellow, but . . . foul men often do. So . . . why should I trust you?”
Spider, growing impatient, leaned toward her. “I’ll tell you true, I have my own reasons for finding your man’s killer. I’ve a mystery of my own I am trying to solve. The man I wrestled with, the man who killed your Tom, stabbed him with my friend’s knife.”
He snatched up the blade and smacked it on the table. “This knife right here. I made it for my friend. And I found it deep in your husband’s neck, and that means my friend is in trouble, and that means I am going to follow any thread I can until I can get my friend out of trouble.”
He turned toward Odin. “And I’ll do so, by thunder, with your old bones by my side or no.”
Spider slammed his pipe back into his mouth and drew deep, while Mrs. Bonnymeade took another swig of booze. Odin glared at Spider but said nothing.
Their hostess put down the liquor and wiped her mouth, then stared at the hearth for a long time. “Thomas stored merchandise,” she finally said, her shoulders slumping. “Goods came in by night, into our cellars, and other men came for them after time had passed. He had arrangements with warehouses, too, and with captains who could carry goods off to other ports if need be. Thomas made his coin from both ends, them bringing in the goods and them taking them away.”
“Sounds like easy coin,” Spider said.
She nodded slowly. “Crosskeys has been here forever, and Tom knew everyone. He made the connections, handled the goods, and the transactions, and arranged all with the carters. We made more coin from that than from custom here.”
“It seems he dealt someone wrong, though,” Odin muttered. “Got himself stabbed dead.”
Mrs. Bonnymeade sobbed. “He knew fair dealing was his best protection. He prided himself on that, he did. He knew he was breaking laws, you see, getting goods past the customs house and all, but he thought himself a fair man. I don’t think he was cheating. I truly do not.” She wept silently.
“Well,” Spider said. “Someone did not like him, and it was a smuggler that killed him, that much we know for certain. So perhaps in tracking down our friend, we might be able to bring your husband’s killer to justice as well.”
“Spider . . .” Odin’s expression was a grim warning.
“A bit free with names are we now, you old sot?”
Odin grimaced. “Aye, I stumbled, but you already called me Odin in front of her, remember? And you’ve already showed our cards a bit without asking me now, didn’t you? ‘We’ve done worse,’ you said. Ha! That was reckless, but hell, I get tired of pretending we are not pirates anyway.”
“Former pirates,” Spider reminded him.
“Hell, pirates or former pirates, it’s all the same to the Admiralty, I reckon. Smugglers and murderers are not people we need to associate with, aye? They tend to draw official attention, aye? We were hoping to avoid that? Being former pirates?”
Mrs. Bonnymeade watched the two men stare at one another, their faces brightening in the glow of Spider’s pipe as he inhaled deeply.
“It is Hob,” Spider said. “You know that.”
Odin sighed. “He chose his life.”
“And I’m choosing to drag him out of it.”
Mrs. Bonnymeade, confused, looked back and forth. “Who is Hob?”
“The friend I mentioned,” Spider said. “A young lad, convinced he’s too clever and brave to ever swing on a noose. Listen, my friends and I have had some misadventures. Been caught up in some rough stuff, not of our own will but because fate likes to piss on us. We are trying to leave all that behind us, and I want to take Hob away from all that as well. Odin—Mister Hughes, I should say—and I were among some folks marooned by pirates . . .”
“Goddamned cutthroats,” Odin muttered, as though he had never been a cutthroat himself. The old man grabbed the flask.
“Goddamned cutthroats, by thunder.” Spider closed his eyes for a second at the memory. “Anyway, Odin and I were stranded, but our friend Hob ran off with a woman pirate . . .”
“Goddamned Anne Bonny,” Odin growled.
“Goddamned Anne Bonny,” Spider agreed.
“Led Hob away by his pecker, she did. Pulled on that, she did, and Hob followed right along.” Odin drank deeply.
“Save me a swig, by thunder, or I’ll scrape your balls with a holy-stone!”
Odin glared at Spider a moment, then handed over the flask. “Ha!”
“You gentlemen are frightening me.” Mrs. Bonnymeade shuddered. “You are frightening me.”
Spider lowered his voice. “You’ve nothing to fear from us. You gave us a port when we needed it and did not ask a lot of questions. And I will add this, too. If we track down this bastard who knifed your man, we will deliver justice on him, we will. We owe you that much. We’ll see the bastard hanged, or we’ll see him die at our own hands. That’s a promise.”
“Justice,” she muttered quietly.
“Aye,” he said, nodding solemnly. “Either the king’s justice, or . . . something quicker.”
“I’ll ask you to tell me afterward,” she said, her lips shaking. “I’ll not ask you what sort of justice took place.”
Spider touched her hand. “Fair, that, and perhaps wise. You are accustomed to that, aye? Not asking a lot of fool questions? Your husband was a rough fellow, and while you seem a sweet sort, I reckon you have been around other rough fellows, too. They came in here to the Crosskeys, right? To do business with your husband? He was too lazy to go do his dirty work elsewhere, liked to sit here and drink and let the money come to him.”
She nodded.
“You know some names, I suppose?”
“Aye. Well, a few. Bill, for one, the fellow who accused you.”
“He brings goods in, or buys them?”
“He owns a couple of wagons, and hauls things for pay. It was him and his lads that usually would go to the cove and load up whatever came ashore and bring it here to the cellars or to a couple of other places Tom arranged, and they would take messages back and forth between Tom and the smugglers, or between Tom and the merchants.”
“Have you any reason to think Bill and his lads would be angry at your husband? Enough to kill him?”
She shook her head. “Lord, no. They all made good coin off the smuggling, and Tom was a lazy tub but he knew enough to keep those fellows happy.”
Spider drained the whisky. “Who else did your husband do enterprises with? Are you certain he did not cheat someone?”
“I do not believe him to be that much of a fool,” she answered. “Lazy, aye, but not a fool. He knew these were rough people.”
Spider looked at Odin, who did not look happy. “Maybe his hand was forced, Aggie. These people do not make pleasant deals. Perhaps he didn’t betray the gents out of greed but did it with a gun to his head or a knife to his throat. Whatever may be, though, Little Bob said the smuggling party was waylaid. Ambushed. Fellows armed with big guns or bombs or something, lots of flash and smoke and noise. So it was no whim or lark, but a planned attack.”
> “Aye,” Odin said. “Still not our affair.”
Spider ignored that. “Little Bob said the attackers took some men away with them. Now why would they do that? Steal the goods, aye, that I can understand. Kill witnesses, certainly. But why carry men away?”
“Perhaps they wanted to drag them off on some goddamned fool errand that would probably lead to a noose, Spider.”
“I thought you liked a good fight, Odin.”
“I am getting old. Ha!”
“Aye. You survived life on the account longer than anyone I’ve ever heard of,” Spider said. “Sailed with Blackbeard, sailed with Ned Low. Maybe you’ve tempted fate enough, though. I won’t ask you to come with me, but I am going to find Hob if I can.”
They stared at one another as Mrs. Bonnymeade’s head whipped back and forth like a flag in a changing wind. Finally, Odin shrugged.
“I think Hob owes me a shilling, come to think of it. Or a bottle of rum. We always bet that stake, aye? And I’ve beat him at chess more than I’ve beat you. I might not ever see that bottle unless I go fetch it. And you’ll just get yourself killed without me around to remind you to prime your pistol.”
Spider smiled. “I don’t have a pistol. Neither do you.”
“I’ll steal us a pair.”
“Come with me and I really will give you a bottle, Odin.” Spider slapped the table. “Well, then. Missus Bonnymeade . . .”
“Aggie.”
“Aggie, then. Smugglers got waylaid, some got carried off, and one of them killed your man because of it.”
“Perhaps it was a press gang, snatching up hands for the king’s ships,” she said.
“They do that in taverns, not lonely coves,” Spider answered. “And have you heard any talk of such?”
“No,” she said.
“Well, then, these men were not pressed.”
Odin nodded. “They blamed Bonnymeade, thought he talked.” Spider scratched his head. “Aye, but who did he talk to? Rival smugglers, perhaps? Did your husband have competition?”
Mrs. Bonnymeade shook her head. “Tom spread the work around, he did, trying to keep all the gentlemen happy. There are different bands of them, to be sure, and a few other brokers, but Tom worked with them all.”
“Then why did these fellows, and Hob with them, get dragged off into the night?” Spider set the candle to his dead pipe and fired it anew. “Who would do that? And why?”
“I don’t see the sense of it,” Odin said.
“Aggie, did Bill and his lads ever come back from a rendezvous in a state, maybe scared or panicked, maybe something had gone wrong?”
“Not that I saw. Tom never told me of his dealings,” she said, “and I did not talk much with Bill or any of the others. I cook, I clean, I make sure the neighbor children that help me out sweep the floors and wash the pots. I do not know much about the business Tom and Bill did. Or any of the smuggling, really. Oh . . .”
Spider looked at her.
“There was an enterprise that got called off,” she said. “I know because Bill was in here, drinking with boys, and they got up to leave, all of them at once. Tom bade them stay and drink a while.”
“Did he say why?”
“No,” she answered, “but Bill asked if they would still get paid and Tom told him they would. But I don’t know more than that.”
Spider’s pipe glowed. “Well,” he said, the clay stem clenched in his teeth and smoke curling through the gap where he’d lost a couple. “I say we go and have another talk with Bill.”
“If he’s been smuggling, he might have a pistol or two we could borrow,” Odin said, leering. “If we’re quick, we might snatch them before he splatters our brains. Ha!”
Spider pulled the pipe from his mouth. “Aggie, where can we find this bastard Bill?”
7
Spider and Odin walked briskly, with their heads down, mostly ignoring the traffic in the road around them. It was still dark, and a tad foggy, but it would not do to be recognized.
Despite it being summer, it was still chilly at this misty, early hour, and they huddled in their sea coats. They dodged chickens on the loose, ignored a cat that hissed at them, and returned the wave of a passing wagoner. Hoists creaked as crates of salt were loaded into tenders, and lads sang at their work as they hauled on ropes and made pulleys squeak.
Morning mist from the river rendered most of their surroundings ghostly, and people and buildings and ship masts seemed to rise before them from nothingness as they strode forward in the dim morning light.
Spider was glad of that, because it rendered him equally invisible to most passersby. He did not wish to be seen or remembered.
Bill Cooper, Aggie had told them, housed his mules and wagons in a barn near the river, and Aggie said he surely would be at work before sunrise, ready to cart goods between the wharfs and taverns and warehouses and coopers and smiths of Lymington. So, the former pirates had decided to go to work early, too.
He and Odin had opted for a few hours of sleep, but it had done Spider little good, and Odin noticed.
“You seem a bit of a shipwreck this morning,” the old man said. “Did you sneak some more whisky?”
“I did not sleep well, Odin.” Spider rubbed his eyes. “When I did sleep, I dreamed. Of Hob, back aboard Redemption and Red Viper, all blond and grinning and full of glory nonsense. I dreamed of home, too.
And when I dream of the son I’ve never really known, he looks like Hob.
Spider did not tell Odin that.
“Aye, Hob was full of all that, and full of piss, too.”
“Why did he run off with Anne Bonny, Odin?”
“She is all curvy and willing, you might recall, and Hob is all pecker and balls. His other choice was to be marooned with us, remember?” Odin spat. “Hell, I’m not certain why we didn’t run off with her, too. We could have.”
“I was weary of pirating, down to my soul.”
“Do pirates have souls?”
Spider shook his head. “Doubtful, at that. If we do, they belong to the devil and not to us. Anyway, we’ve got some work, aye?”
“Aye.”
Mrs. Bonnymeade’s hot breakfast of eggs and ham and crusty bread had fortified them for the confrontation ahead. Spider had Hob’s throwing knife in his belt, and Odin had acquired an old chair leg he thought might serve as a decent cudgel.
“I’d feel better about this if we had a few pistols and a sword or two,” Odin muttered.
“I don’t think those fellows have done much fighting,” Spider said. “They were willing to confront us, sure, but they didn’t spread out to take advantage of their numbers, and the two with knives didn’t even reach for them. And that Bill, his gaze wavered, even with the odds on his side. If we catch him alone, I think he’ll collapse like a sail in the doldrums.”
They did not find him alone, however. They’d agreed to walk past the barn first, to do a bit of scouting, and the wide-open door gave them a decent view inside. Bill had his mules hitched already and leaned next to them with a lantern to inspect that all was in order. Another fellow, wide-shouldered and smoking a clay pipe, sat in the wagon seat, holding the reins and humming quietly. Spider did not recognize him.
“Smells like shit in there,” Odin muttered.
“Do you suppose you smell any better?” Spider shook his head, though. The reek of mule dung was almost strong enough to knock a man over.
They moved on about fifty paces, then reversed course.
“Are you ready for action, my friend?”
“I am always ready for action, Spider.”
“Beat to quarters, then.”
On their return pass, Spider and Odin strode boldly into the barn. “Have you any extra work, sir?” Spider said as he approached.
“I cannot afford more hands,” said Bill, kneeling by a wagon wheel with the lantern on the floor beside him. He looked up to find Spider almost upon him. “Hey, you are . . .”
“That is right,” Spider said, gra
bbing Bill by the collar and forcing the man’s back against his wagon. Behind him, Odin pulled the barn door closed, blocking the dim morning light and the possibility of witnesses.
Spider heard the other man drop from the wagon. That sound was followed by a couple of hard whacks and Odin’s soft chuckle, then a loud cry and some whimpering. Spider did not even look back. He had seen his old shipmate fight too many times to have any doubt of the result.
“This lobcock seems to have broke his leg,” Odin said. “And if he blubbers too loud he’ll get another one broke, and maybe a busted nut sack as well. Ha!”
Bill’s wide eyes turned toward Odin, and Spider scraped the man’s beard with the sharp blade to regain his attention.
Spider lifted the knife high enough for Bill to see it, then placed it against the man’s throat. “I’m the fellow you accused of murder last night. But I won’t hold a grudge, I won’t, if you behave smartly. You are going to tell me all about smuggling.”
“I do not know a damned thing about smuggling,” Bill replied. The only light now came from Bill’s lantern, and a couple of others hanging from hooks on the walls. Spider concentrated on his prey, knowing that Odin would search the shadows and the spaces between crates and barrels for any interlopers, and counting on it being unlikely he would find any. Bill had no reason to expect an assault this fine morning.
“I have heard that you know a bloody great deal about smuggling, Bill. My friend won’t hurt your friend any more than he already has, and I won’t hurt you, so long as you tell me what I want to know,” Spider continued. “But if you don’t, well, my friend will spill your friend’s ball sack all over this floor, and I’ll cut yours wide open, too. It’ll make a right mess, it will.”
“I am not a smuggler,” Bill said quietly, shaking. “I know nothing about any smuggling.”
Spider shook his head slowly. “You own mules and a cart and you spoke with Tom Bonnymeade almost every night, and he dealt with smugglers all the time so you are a goddamned smuggler, to be sure.” Spider narrowed his eyes and touched the sharp edge to Bill’s neck. “But I do not care about that. Truly. I want to know about the fellows who waylaid a crew not long ago. They come ashore with some booty, Anne Bonny’s booty, intending to hand it over to you, and they got attacked instead. Some of those men were carried off, I’m told, and one of them that was carried off is my friend. Maybe you were there, maybe you weren’t, but I am guessing such an odd story gets told over pints over and over and so, goddamn it, you know something. So you are going to tell me who ambushed them, and why, and where I can find them. Or what’s left of you is going to be another story that gets told over pints.”
