Killigrew and the Sea Devil

by Jonathan Lunn

  ‘If you’re going to give me a slug, cully, make it gin ’stead o’ lead!’ He thumbed back the hammer. ‘Where’s Deadly?’

  ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ the barman said surlily. Molineaux fired a shot past the barman’s ear, shattering the etched-glass mirror on the wall behind him.

  The barman flinched, but quickly recovered himself and glanced mildly over his shoulder. ‘That’s seven years’ bad luck.’

  ‘It’ll be a ’ternity of bad luck for you, if I have to pull this trigger a second time. Keep your fams where I can see ’em and move away from the barking iron I don’t doubt you got stowed under the counter.’

  A door opened off to one side and a tall, horse-faced man with red hair and military whiskers stepped through. ‘What the hell’s all the racket about?’ he demanded, and then grinned when he saw Molineaux. ‘Cowcumber Henson! As I live and breathe!’

  ‘Hullo, Carrots. Long time no see.’

  ‘Not nearly long enough, Wes! It’s all right, Bob; Wes here’s an old pal. As a matter of fact, Wes was the toast of the swell mob before either of you had faked your first cly; and he was a damned sight better at it too. What brings you here, Wes?’

  Molineaux dropped the revolver into a sink of soapy water behind the bar. ‘I wanted a word with Deadly. Is she in?’

  Carrots nodded and gave his head a jerk, motioning for Molineaux to follow him back through the door from which he had just emerged. The two of them went down a short corridor and knocked on the first door to the left.

  ‘Who is it?’ a woman’s voice called from the other side.

  ‘Carrots. There’s an old pal out here eager to renew your acquaintance.’

  ‘Come in.’

  Carrots opened the door and ushered Molineaux through into a room that was scarcely less plush than the saloon they had just left, if marginally more tasteful, barring the portrait of a reclining nude framed high on one wall.

  The woman who had modelled for the portrait sat in a plush leather chair behind a mahogany desk with an inlaid leather surface, wearing a white blouse and a smart skirt. If Molineaux had not known better, he might have mistaken her for a respectable woman. Belladonna Porter – alias Deadly Nightshade – had to be nearly forty now, but remained as handsome as ever, and if she had fleshed out at all since the last time he had seen her, it was in all the right places.

  As soon as she saw him, she smiled with delight. ‘Cowcumber!’ She rose to her feet and moved out from behind her desk to give him a peck on one cheek. ‘No need to ask where you’ve been hiding yourself these past seventeen years.’

  He grinned. ‘Hullo, Deadly.’

  ‘Missing the flash mob, are you? I can still use a dab fam like you, assuming you ain’t let your old talents go rusty.’ She indicated the man who sat in one of the other chairs with his elbows on the armrests and his fingers steepled. His togs were gentry, but Molineaux was not fooled: the eyes were as hard as the diamond pin in his cravat. ‘Mr Pierce here’s got wind of a prime lay, and he’s looking for a dab cracksman.’

  Smiling, Molineaux shook his head. ‘I’m straight now, Deadly.’

  ‘Are you sure? There could be a lot of ’gent in it for you.’

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks. Can we voker in private?’

  Deadly nodded. ‘If you’ll excuse us?’ she said to Pierce. ‘I’ll be in touch. Carrots, tell Ned Agar I’ve got a prime lay for him.’

  Carrots nodded and went out of the room after Pierce, closing the door behind them.

  Molineaux glanced at the two-way mirror on one wall, through which he could see the saloon where Bob was sweeping up the shards of the broken mirror behind the bar and the butler was massaging his twisted shoulder. A moment later Carrots and Pierce emerged and crossed the room. ‘Still up to your old tricks I see,’ Molineaux remarked.

  Deadly moved closer to him; closer than propriety might have permitted. ‘Oh, I’ve learned a few new ones since the old days,’ she whispered huskily.

  ‘I dare say. You’ve come a long way since you were Sammy the Swell’s moll.’

  ‘And you’re just a common lagger.’

  ‘Lagger’ was cant for ‘sailor’; to the flash mob, sailors were the men who took convicted criminals to the penal colonies in the Australias. ‘Bit of a comedown from being Cowcumber Henson, ain’t it?’

  ‘Excuse me! For your information, I happen to be a uncommon dab lagger.’

  She moved away from him briskly, crossing to the sideboard where a row of crystal decanters stood. ‘Take the weight off your stumps, Wes. Pull up a pew. Can I offer you a wet?’

  ‘That depends… it’s not going to be laced with arsenic, is it?’

  ‘Wes! Would I do that to you?’

  ‘That depends on whether or not you’re still harbouring a grudge over the Haymarket job.’

  ‘I always assumed it was Foxy that double-crossed Sammy on that one.’ She laughed. ‘Hell! If you’d made off with the bosh, I doubt you’d be working as a lagger now. For what that fiddle was worth, you could’ve bought your own ship!’ She shook her head. ‘Sammy double-crossed you and Foxy before Foxy double-crossed us all. He was lagged and the crushers caught up with Sammy a couple of years later.’

  Molineaux nodded. ‘I heard Sammy got cramped at Newgate.’

  ‘And I hear Foxy cocked his toes in the colonies a few years back.’

  ‘I know. I’m the one that hushed him.’

  Deadly stared at Molineaux in disbelief. ‘You hushed him? I don’t believe it. You and Foxy was always as thick as thieves.’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘Did he ever tell you what he did with the bosh?’

  Molineaux nodded. ‘He swapped it for a dummy he’d hidden amongst the rubbish in the alley behind the theatre – he done it so smart even I didn’t see the switch, and I was standing right beside him at the time – and went back for the ream article after. Hid it in the attic of a drum on Dyott Street.’

  ‘You mean… it’s still there?’

  Molineaux shook his head. ‘I already checked. Oh, I promised myself I wouldn’t: told myself I’d put that life behind me, and that I needed to stay away to prove it to myself. But… well, curiosity’s a powerful thing.’

  ‘And was it still there?’

  ‘The whole drum was torn down when they built New Oxford Street.’

  Deadly laughed merrily. ‘Easy come, easy go. Well, either way, you and me are square now, Wes.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll have some of that whisky you’ve got there.’

  ‘Whisky! I remember when it was always gin with you, Wes.’ She took the stopper from one of the decanters and poured out a couple of measures. ‘I thought it was all rum, bum and baccy in the navy?’

  ‘Never had a taste for any of those things,’ Molineaux said mildly. She brought two glasses of whisky away from the sideboard and handed one to him before resuming her seat behind the desk, all business now. ‘So, Wes; if you ain’t interested in coming back to the cross lay, what brings you to my humble abode?’

  ‘I’m looking for a screevesman.’

  ‘I can recommend any number.’

  ‘I’m looking for one in particular. His tally’s Jem the Penman. Word on the street is he’s the one that dotted Commander Killigrew’s card for the Paddington croaking.’

  ‘I don’t granny anything of that. It weren’t done with my blessing, but you know how it is with cramping. There’s too many amateurs even for me to keep a lid on it!’

  ‘The coves what cramped Miss Maltravers were no amateurs, believe me!’

  ‘What’s your interest?’

  ‘Killigrew’s a pal of mine. So was Miss Maltravers, in a way. I ain’t going to stand by and see him nap a blinder for it.’

  ‘So you think the letter found in the victim’s fam was a fakement, and you need to find the screevesman who faked it to prove this Killigrew’s on the square.’

  ‘That’s about the long and the short of it.’
r />   ‘What makes you think it was Jem the Penman?’

  ‘The coves what cramped Miss Maltravers would’ve hired the best: they could afford it. And they say Jem the Penman’s the best.’

  ‘All right, let’s say it was Jem the Penman; and let’s also say that I know who he is and where you can find him. Why should I tell you? You’re only going to blow upon him to the crushers to save your pal Killigrew from a Newgate neck-cloth. I don’t chirp, Wes: it’s bad for business. You should know that.’

  ‘Not even if the coves what hired Jem the Penman were Russian spies?’

  ‘Russian spies? Where do Russian spies come into it?’

  ‘They’re the ones as cramped Miss Maltravers. Oh, not for any military advantage: just out of spite, acos me and Mr Killigrew got her and her parents out of Finland last year. They found out Mr K was sweet on Miss M, so they found a way to fix ’em both.’ Molineaux sipped his whisky. ‘Now, if you’re happy with the thought of Russian spies prowling through the night committing all sorts of crimes on your turf, then by all means keep Jem the Penman’s ream tally from me.’

  She stood up and crossed to the two-way mirror, staring at nothing in particular. Molineaux remained in his chair, content to let her chew it over for a moment.

  Finally she turned back to face him. ‘If I tell you, you didn’t hear it from me.’

  ‘That goes without saying!’

  Deadly gave him the name. She even threw the initials after it into the bargain. The name meant nothing to Molineaux, but on hearing the initials his jaw dropped.

  Chapter 4

  Killigrew in the Underworld

  The water at the bottom of Portsmouth Harbour was so silty that even at three fathoms Killigrew could hardly see his hand in front of his face. But he did not have to look hard for the thirty-two-pounder carronade: this was an exercise in salvage, not underwater location. Spotting it through the clouds of silt that billowed around his weighted boots with every step, he tapped the instructor on the arm and pointed to the gun. The instructor gave him the thumbs-up – it was impossible to see a nod when one’s head was enclosed by the brass Siebe helmet – and the two of them made their way across to it, kicking up fresh clouds of silt at each step.

  The instructor handed Killigrew the end of one of the ropes, and the commander got down on his knees to pass it under the barrel to fasten it into a sling. He had to rely on feel as much as sight to see what he was doing, with the sound of his own breath rasping in his ears as an accompaniment to the rhythmic sighing of the pump at the other end of his air hose, and the great weight of the water above him pressing the rubber and twill canvas diving suit against his body.

  At last he had fastened the cable to the sling, tugged it a couple of times to make sure it was secure, and gave the instructor the thumbs-up. The instructor moved closer to check the fastenings for himself, and then gave another thumbs-up and gestured in the direction of the diving platform. The two of them made their way across to it, and no sooner had Killigrew given a couple of pulls on the communication rope than the platform began to rise.

  When they emerged from the waves, without the water to buoy it up Killigrew’s helmet became heavy once more, and he was conscious of his weighted belt and the weights hanging from his corselet. He climbed up on to the deck where two of his fellow trainees worked the air pump, his heavy boots awkward and difficult to lift in the air as he climbed up the accommodation ladder until he stood on the deck. He sat down on a stout bench so one of the other men on the deck could unscrew the nuts that fixed the helmet to his corselet. Killigrew blinked at the bright sunshine as the heavy helmet was carefully lifted from his head. ‘How do you feel, sir?’ asked the supervisor on deck.

  ‘Never felt better,’ Killigrew assured him, truthfully enough.

  The supervisor clapped him on the back and turned to the instructor, who had followed Killigrew up on deck and had his own helmet removed in turn. ‘How did he do?’

  ‘Steady, confident and thorough,’ the instructor said. ‘How quick?’

  ‘Want to guess?’

  ‘Five and a half minutes?’

  ‘Not far off. I make it five minutes and twenty-seven seconds. But the proof of the pudding is in the eating. Let’s see what he’s landed.’ The supervisor ordered two other trainees to man the winch. Presently the carronade was hauled up from the inky depths, and the trainees on deck cheered and clapped Killigrew on the back.

  ‘Not bad, sir,’ said the supervisor. ‘Keep this up, and we’ll make a half-decent diver of you yet. All right, that’s enough for today. Those of you who’ve been granted shore leave had better be back here by eight bells in the morning – and I want you all fit and rested, so no late night carousing ashore! Diving and the demon drink do not mix.’

  Killigrew returned to his cabin to get changed back into his uniform, and was brushing his hair when there was a knock on the cabin door.

  ‘Come in?’

  The door opened to reveal Molineaux grinning on the doorstep, back in his petty officer’s uniform. ‘Hullo, sir!’

  ‘Molineaux! What the devil are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m on my way back out to the Our Emily.’ HMS Ramillies was anchored out in Spithead with the other ships gathering for the fleet, due to sail for the Baltic in three weeks’ time. ‘Persuaded the cox’n to stop here so I could tell you what I managed to find out. How’s the diving instruction coming on, sir?’

  ‘Oh, it’s the most terrific fun,’ Killigrew told him in all sincerity. ‘It’s good to be working with my hands for a change, instead of strutting up and down the quarterdeck giving orders, or doing paperwork in my cabin. And the complex mathematical formulae it seems to involve help keep my mind off… well, you know. That said, you realise I’d much rather be getting the Ramillies ready for her next voyage with you and the others. I’ve got a score to settle with those Russian bastards. Still, the sooner I get off this murder charge, the sooner I can resume my duties on board the Ramillies.’

  Molineaux frowned. ‘You haven’t heard, then?’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘They’ve appointed a new commander to replace you. It wasn’t Cap’n Crichton’s doing,’ he added hurriedly. ‘He kicked up merry hell about it when he found out the Admiralty had gone over his head. Said it wasn’t their business to go appointing him a new second in command without consulting him.’

  That was certainly true, although Killigrew could not imagine Crichton being so indiscreet as to say so to a petty officer. ‘Now, Molineaux, I hope you haven’t been listening at keyholes!’

  ‘’Course not, sir. Got it off the jolly who was on duty outside the cap’n’s day-room, didn’t I? And he didn’t mean to eavesdrop, I’m sure; but you know what old Nose-Biter’s like when his blood’s up. He don’t exactly keep his voice low.’

  ‘True enough. Still, never mind that: did you have any luck tracking down this forger?’

  ‘I got his tally.’

  ‘Capital work! Let’s have it, then.’

  Molineaux gave him the name. And the letters after it.

  ‘You’re joshing me.’

  ‘On the level, sir. Think about it: a cove in that lay needs all sorts of criminal pals. How better to make their acquaintance, all the while keeping up a respectable front for his friends and neighbours?’

  ‘I suppose it makes sense. It’s just incredible to think that a man in that line of work might be using it as a cover for criminal activity.’

  ‘Oh, you’d be amazed how many of the purportedly respectable gentry coves you rub shoulders with at the Army and Navy are really hardened criminals.’

  Killigrew thought about it. ‘Well, perhaps not that amazed,’ he told Molineaux. ‘Did you get an address for him?’

  Molineaux shook his head. ‘No, but he shouldn’t be that difficult to find. I’ll bet Mr Strachan’s uncle knows how to track him down.’

  The petty officer could not keep his boat waiting any longer, so Killigrew walked him on
deck and watched as he was rowed out to where the Ramillies was moored. It was a hard blow to learn that someone had been appointed to replace him on the block-ship. Even if he could satisfy the jury of his innocence at his trial, there was no berth waiting for him on one of Her Majesty’s ships afterwards, unless a vacancy came up on a ship of the line – third rate or higher – where the captain was willing to appoint Killigrew as his second in command; and there had been precious few of those even before he had been accused of murder.

  He had his nose rubbed into his situation every time he went up on the Excellent’s deck, for hardly a day passed without another ship arriving to join the fleet gathering at Spithead. Rear Admiral Dundas’ flagship, the Duke of Wellington, was already there, anchored under bare poles with the other ships of the line, corvettes and sloops gathering around her; and all of the larger ships had a gunboat or a mortar-vessel as a tender. What was most remarkable of all was that every single ship had a funnel or two rising amidships: whether equipped with paddle-wheels or a screw, there was not a ship leaving with the fleet in April that was not a steamer.

  Having got permission from the Excellent’s captain to go ashore that weekend, Killigrew rose at first light on Saturday morning and dressed in his civilian rig: a black cotton-print shirt decorated with a pattern of tiny white skulls and crossbones, gothic designs being all the ‘go’; railway-stripe trousers; a waistcoat in the dark-hued hunting tartan of his native Cornwall; a tobacco-coloured frock-coat and a new greatcoat of Mackintosh cloth. Finally, he set his broad-brimmed wideawake hat – bran-new from James Lock & Co. – on his head at a jaunty angle, checked his appearance in the small mirror over the wash-stand in his cabin, and made his way up on deck.

  As he was rowed ashore, he saw the children retrieving the round shot from the previous day’s gunnery practice from the mudflats off Whale Island, skiing over the mud with wooden boards strapped to their feet. Their families made a good living selling them back to the Excellent, and one of them – the Grubbs – had even invented a special device for extracting the shot from the mud.