‘Of course.’
It appears that Napoleon is in some way connected to a child, a thirteen -year- old , named Pierre Le Beau. Pierre and his mother , who was also once, the lady-in-waiting to the Empress Eugenie ,was stuck in Paris after the defeat at Sedan at the beginning of September. The Empress had already left the Tuileries in Paris secretly, and via Deauville sailed over to England, arriving on the south coast on the 8th September. A few days later Pierre, and his mother Marie-Anne, left Paris and reached the port of Rouen on the lower Seine. Now, Marie-Anne wanted to go and support Louis Napoleon, rather than join Eugenie in England, so she arranged for Pierre to be put aboard the Spirit of Rochester, which was docked in Rouen, and en route to London. Meanwhile she travelled alone by train to Brussels where she had some discussion with the French Ambassador. From there she travelled east and joined Napoleon’s court, which was effectively imprisoned at Cassell in central Germany. So far so good. Pierre was due to arrive on September 18th at the pool of London. The problem was – he never arrived. Some members of the French embassy were waiting at Trinity House by the Tower, but when the ship docked there was no sign of him. The only other stopping place after leaving Rouen was Gravesend, for Customs clearance. Again no one saw him leave the ship, but –and this is the interesting thing – there was a rumour that at nightfall, when the Spirit was moored outside the town on the Hope, a rowing boat left the ship and brought someone ashore. Now, it appears that somehow this rumour got back to Napoleon’s court. They have since tried to trace Pierre through Scotland Yard and the Kent constabulary, but got nowhere. So, hearing that I have dealings with lost boys through my school here in Gravesend, they came to ask if I had come across him or had heard any rumours of his whereabouts.’ He paused for breath.
‘Unfortunately, I’ve nothing to help them. I have made enquiries but got nowhere. Also, it is of course somewhat awkward for a commander in the Royal Engineers to be actively helping a French emperor in exile. That is where you come in – you are experienced in finding lost people. I also know you can be trusted implicitly. So, I am asking. Can you help me with this issue?’
I looked straight back at Gordon and replied without hesitation.
‘Of course, I will do all I can – but where is our starting point? What clues do we have?’
Gordon stared solemnly ahead. ‘Precious little I’m afraid, the only lead is this sighting of a rowing boat coming ashore from the boat. I can give you the details of the person who says they saw this. That is all I have. Of course, the constabulary have interviewed the captain of the Spirit of Rochester, John Lynch, but he denies everything. He did not stowaway the boy. Has never heard of him. Knows nothing.’ I sighed; this was not going to be easy, but I owed it to Gordon to help.
‘Alright then, I’m happy to help in any way I can. Can you give me the details of the person who saw the rowing boat?’
Gordon smiled.
‘Yes, indeed. His name is Jack Carter, or One-legged Jack, as he is more commonly known. He lives up on the hill overlooking the town. He is an old sea captain himself and spends half his time spying on the river with a powerful telescope. Keeps a log of everything he sees. The Customs boys have found him useful in the past. This sighting was just one entry on his log but coincides with the time and location of the Spirit being moored on the Hope. Another tip: take a bottle of brandy with you, he probably has some gossip that might come in useful. Here’s his address, just up the hill from here.’
And that was that. No mention of payment for my work, but then Gordon did not think on that level. A child was missing, it was our Christian duty to find him.
‘I think I will need to stay in Gravesend for a few days to get to grips with this, I assume you will not want me staying here at the Fort?’
Charles was clearly non-plussed that I should ask such a stupid question.
‘Certainly not, I don’t want it to be known that I have any connection to this investigation. Your presence here is purely to be thought of as an old friend, an old army pal, meeting up – I suggest you stay at the Eagle on West Street, it is quite cheap and is close to the seamen’s pubs. It is right by the river, but I suggest you get a room overlooking the street, as you will sleep better away from the boats on the river – which are surprisingly noisy, even at night. I will pay your bills for now and in addition a retainer of two pounds per week. We understand each other?’
I concurred with him that this seemed a satisfactory arrangement and prepared to leave.
Gordon bade me adieu at his office door. Although we had not spoken for over fifteen years, he made no effort to prolong the conversation.
I walked out past the sentry and into a warm Gravesend afternoon with a gentle breeze blowing off the river. This was indeed one of the most difficult assignments I had ever taken on, but my loyalty to Gordon and intrigue about the whole affair made it impossible to resist.
Three
Settling into Gravesend
I immediately called into the Eagle and organised my lodgings – I could go home for some belongings later. The publican, Sam, showed me up to my room on the second floor. It was a modest affair but clearly the hotel was of reasonable quality and catered for a slightly better class of travelling salesman and the like; in short the room was perfectly adequate for my needs. It also had a decent view down West Street. For those of you who do not know Gravesend, let me give you a brief description of the view from my bedroom. The Eagle was situated at the west end of West Street. Looking to the east you would see a brewery warehouse and beyond that the King’s Arms inn. Then a few more commercial properties and you reached the Three Daws inn, which was next to the town’s ferry stage and opposite the north end of the high street. The high street climbed away from the river towards the town centre. Along the street, about 200 yards up, were the town hall and courtroom beside the marketplace. At the far southern end of the high street was Gravesend railway station. Coming back to the Three Daws, if you carried on along the riverside to the east you reached the Clarendon Hotel, followed by the Customs and Excise building, and just beyond that, New Tavern Fort itself.
It was a busy little town and often the first port for ships coming up the Thames to London, hence the importance of the Customs House for checking incoming boats. The river trade had made the town wealthier, but it still had some dodgy riverside drinking dens, which gave it an air of excitement and unpredictability.
I could not give myself any more time to linger over my thoughts, there was work to be done, and quickly. I decided to heed Gordon’s advice and arm myself with a bottle of brandy, so walked into the nearest pub, the King’s Arms, not far from the ferry landing stage. Not the most salubrious place. Sawdust floor, several very drunken old timers with swollen red and purple noses at the bar. It struck me as the kind of place where bad business could be done at will.
I quickly purchased the brandy from the bemused publican – clearly, I was not his usual sort of customer – and walked out into the street. I was very struck by the difference in the atmosphere inside, and outside the inn. Gravesend was a prosperous town with a train station, shops, good housing; all the attributes of well-ordered Victorian life, but inside the pub was a different world. A place of old seamen, danger, and dark secrets. I could imagine that illegal dealing of goods, and prostitution, would be easily to hand. The dark and light sides of England, just yards apart.
I walked up the hill and quickly found the terrace of cottages. The end one was where Jack Carter lived. It was a modest affair but benefited from unobstructed views of the river. One day new houses would be built nearby, and that view would be gone but for now it had a panorama of the river and the ship movements occurring on it.
I knocked on the door and waited. Finally, an old man dressed in a thick pullover, with a gammy leg, sucking on a long, cream-coloured clay pipe came to the door.
‘Yes,’ he said gruffly.
‘He
llo, let me introduce myself, my name is William Reeves and I’m a writer and journalist. I’m writing a book about seafaring in Gravesend and I was wondering if you could help me with my research?’
He looked me up and down. ‘So how do you know about me?’
‘I’ve made some feelers in the town and everyone says that Jack Carter, who lives on the hill, is the man to ask about Gravesend and the stories of old-time seafaring.’ He seemed to brighten up at this.
‘So, what do you want exactly?’ he said.
‘Just a conversation to get snippets of local life for my book.’ I took the brandy out of my coat pocket. ‘I thought this might oil the wheels of your memory?’
He smiled. ‘Come on in.’
He led me through his cottage, which was jam-packed with memorabilia of his sea-going days. Even the walls of the rooms seemed to be lined with timber planking that may have once been part of boats he sailed in. He bade me to sit down in an armchair opposite his. He also opened his drinks cabinet and brought out two crystal glasses. Getting the cue, I had soon half-filled these. We sat down. I thought I would try and get him in a cordial mood so started with some small talk.
“This is a fine house – I’ve never seen so much maritime history and artefacts in one place. Is it all yours?’
Jack smiled.
‘Collected over many years. My father and his father were seafarers. Even my only son, Tom, went to sea for a while. Was on the spice runs from India. Poor lad got malaria off the Gold Coast and was taken ashore at Freetown to die.’ I could see his hurt on that one.
‘Sorry to hear that. The oceans can be a dangerous place.’
He sniffed. ‘You have to be a mariner to know just how dangerous they can be. Anyway – what is it you want exactly?’
‘I am really just trying to find out about what life was like for a sea-going man back in the Napoleon’s time. How the town has changed, and so on.’
He grunted and with measured words replied, ‘I can tell you a thousand and one stories about this place, a lot from the past when we had press gangs, and smuggling was rife. I can tell you stories from today as well.’ He took a drag from the glass then a quick puff on his pipe, then continued. ‘Thing is, what people don’t know is that things haven’t changed as much as you think. I know the high street is full of gents wearing suits and bowler hats going to the station, catching trains up to town, and ladies sitting in hansom cabs and the like, but behind all that if you go down into the riverside pubs, late at night, you’ll see a different world. Men so drunk they cannot stand, whores working down the alleyways, bottles of brandy and the like being slipped off boats when the Customs aren’t looking. And that’s not the half of it.’ He carried on in this vein for a long, long time. Clearly, he did not have many visitors these days and was only to happy to share his thoughts with anyone interested in them.
I wanted to try and gently prise some relevant information from him, so I asked, “Talking about characters, are there any really dangerous seafarers still in Gravesend? You know, people you wouldn’t want to cross?’
He thought for a moment. ‘So many of them. Tommy Tibbalds is one; he runs the boat-breaking yard at Denton. There’s more on the wrong side of the law, than the right side.’
‘What about sea captains who visit the town, any bad ones?’
‘Well, I’ve not been to sea for a few years now but the ones who were bad ’uns then who are still about now are the same. Let me think.’ He paused to gather his thoughts. ‘Probably Lynchy is the worst.’
‘Lynch?’
‘Yea, John Lynch, captain of the Spirit of Rochester. I was mates with him once, a long time ago. He even got a job on board for my boy Tom, but I have fallen out with him since. If you have any dealings with him, keep your wits about you. He is into all sorts. Or so they say. Thing is I don’t mind a bit of people smuggling or fiddling the Excise duty. It is the sex thing that upsets me.’ He puffed even more fervently on his clay pipe.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Sex, you know, paying for it or not as the case may be. Now I’ve no problem with paying the whores round here. That is just business, if you get a dose of the clap, so be it, but some of the sailors are worse than that. They get their way with boys, some not even twelve. Now that is wrong, that is.’
I replied quickly. ‘That is terrible, and of course it’s a criminal offence.’
He scoffed. ‘Only if you’re caught.’
‘So, are you saying this Captain Lynch and his crew have got a taste for boys, when they’re ashore?’ There was an awkward pause. He seemed to come to his senses suddenly.
‘I’m not saying anything about anyone. I think you have had enough today. What’s this all about anyway?’
I cleared my throat. ‘The truth is Jack; I’m looking for a boy who has been lost. Who has disappeared off the face of the earth. The only clue I have is that he may have come ashore in a rowing boat on the night of the 17th September last year. I believe you made a note in your log of a rowing boat coming from the ‘Spirit of Rochester’ around midnight. Just a boy being rowed by two men.?’
He got to his feet, clearly flustered. ‘I just keep a log on what I see from my bedroom window. I don’t want no eavesdropper putting two and two together and getting me in trouble. Now, be on your way.’
Clearly, he was terribly upset, so I made my way to the door and stepped out. He virtually slammed the door behind me. Perhaps I had handled that badly, but it did seem from what was said, that indeed Captain Lynch was as rotten as a pear and perfectly capable of kidnapping the French boy.
I walked back down to the town. What was to be done now? Having concerns about someone, and being able to prove it, were two different things. And if Pierre had come ashore where was he being hidden? Where to start looking?
Four
Searching
For the next few days I stayed in the town, residing at the Eagle. My room had a view out over the busy street, and I could see and hear workers from the nearby brewery, coming and going to work. Early morning the drays left the yard, loaded up with barrels of beer, their heavy horses’ hoofs clattering over the granite setts, with their drayman talking loudly to each other and anyone else awake at this early hour. Also, every day ;a strange-looking man with a heavy black leather briefcase and a pronounced limp, using a stick, walked from the brewery offices, down West Street towards Town Pier – and ten minutes later he returned. Same time every day, to the minute. There was also the milkman and the baker doing their rounds, in fact the hustle and bustle never stopped. All in all, a noisy affair, guaranteed to wake you up.
During the day I walked the town, getting to know its nooks and crannies. Often, I would visit the riverside pubs in the hope of overhearing some nugget of information, but nothing. Clearly, I was an outsider and was treated as such. The seamen who frequented the alehouses kept themselves to themselves. It was a dispiriting experience.
On the third day I received a message from Gordon, he needed to see me. I immediately and briskly strode down to his office at the fort. I was ushered in straight away. Gordon sat by his desk and bade me sit down without any small talk or greeting.
Gordon took his hands from behind his head and reached across the desk towards me.
‘Have you had any success with your investigations?’
I looked sheepish as I replied, ‘I’m afraid that little progress had been made. My meeting with Jack Carter was useful but the seafaring community who might have some knowledge of what occurred are tight lipped and appear to be a closed shop where outsiders cannot find out anything.’
He looked at me with clear disappointment in his eyes.
‘So, what can we do Reeves?, How can we break into this web of silence?’
I thought for a moment then taking my courage in both hands, broached the issue that I knew Gordon would be awkward on.
‘It could be that the kidnappers, for that’s what they are, have one Achilles heel. From talking to Jack, I got the impression that Lynch has a taste for, shall we say, his own kind.’
Gordon looked perplexed.
‘What do you mean, Reeves?’
I could feel his discomfiture but carried on.
‘The inference is, from my talk with Carter, that Lynch may have homosexual tendencies, he may have a taste for younger men. In fact, boys.’
Gordon’s face turned red with rage.
‘How dare you mention such unspeakable behaviour. How dare you bring these disgusting thoughts and theories into this office.’
There was an awkward silence before I continued.
‘I appreciate this is disgusting, ungodly behaviour, but in real life it does go on, and if true, might be Lynch’s undoing. Can you honestly say that in your dealings with the poor children at the ragged school, you did not hear of such rumours?’
Gordon was uncomfortable but defiant.
‘Yes, I heard such rumours, but the thought is so repugnant that I dispelled them as pure gossip.’ The meeting was getting awkward, but I had to continue.
‘I’m sorry sir, but I cannot crack this case unless I can get down to the nitty gritty. Now, were there any boys that you know might have indulged in this behaviour –albeit they may have been forced into it by callous and bestial older men?’
Gordon sighed. ‘Alright, I will speak to the housekeeper of the school and ask if they have any boys who might have been damaged in this way.’
I felt, finally, that progress was being made.
‘Thank you.’
The French Emperor's Woman Page 2
