Bolitho said quietly, “I shall stay at the other house until tomorrow. I have to think.”
She nodded, her eyes very clear. “I understand. I know your moods. Tomorrow we shall begin again. I shall forgive, while you must try to forget. Do not damage your family name because of a momentary infatuation. We parted badly, so I must carry some of the blame.”
She walked beside him to the entrance hall. At no time had they touched, let alone embraced.
She asked, “Is everything well with you? I did hear that you had been ill.”
He took his hat from the gaping servant. “I am well enough, thank you.”
Then he turned and walked out into the square as the door closed behind him.
How could he go to the reception and act as if nothing had happened? If he never saw Catherine again, he would never forget her and what she had done for him.
Almost out loud he said, “I cannot believe she would run away!” The words were torn from him, and he did not even notice two people turn to stare after him.
Allday greeted him warily. “No news, Sir Richard.”
Bolitho threw himself into a chair. “Fetch me a glass of something, will you?”
“Some nice cool hock?”
Allday watched worriedly as Bolitho replied, “No. Brandy this time.”
He drank two glasses before its warmth steadied his mind. “In God’s name, I am in hell.”
Allday refilled the glass. It was likely the best thing to make him forget.
He stared round the room. Get back to the sea. That he could understand.
Bolitho’s head lolled and the empty glass fell unheeded on the carpet.
The dream was sudden and violent. Catherine pulling at him, her breasts bared as she was dragged away from him, her screams probing at his brain like hot irons.
He awoke with a start and saw Allday release his arm, his face full of concern.
Bolitho gasped, “I—I’m sorry! It was a nightmare—” He stared round; the room was darker. “How long have I been here?”
Allday watched him grimly. “That don’t matter now, beggin’ yer pardon.” He jabbed his thumb at the door. “There’s someone here to see you. Wouldn’t talk to no one else.”
Bolitho’s aching mind cleared. “What about?” He shook his head. “No matter, fetch him in.”
He got to his feet and stared at his reflection in the window. I am losing my sanity.
Allday pouted. “Might be a beggar.”
“Fetch him.”
He heard Allday’s familiar tread, and a strange clumping step which reminded him of an old friend he had lost contact with. But the man who was ushered in by Allday was nobody he recognised, nor was his rough uniform familiar.
The visitor removed his outdated tricorn hat to reveal untidy greying hair. He was badly stooped, and Bolitho guessed it was because of his crude wooden leg.
He asked, “Can I help you? I am—”
The man peered at him and nodded firmly. “I knows ’oo you are, zur.”
He had a faint West Country accent, and the fashion in which he touched his forehead marked him as an old sailor.
But the uniform with its plain brass buttons was like nothing Bolitho had ever seen.
He said, “Will you be seated?” He gestured to Allday. “A glass for—what may I call you?”
The man balanced awkwardly on a chair and nodded again very slowly. “You won’t recall, zur. But me name’s Vanzell—”
Allday exclaimed, “Bless you, so it is!” He stared at the one-legged man and added, “Gun-captain in th’ Phalarope. ”
Bolitho gripped the back of a chair to contain his racing thoughts. All those years, and yet he could not understand why he had not recognised the man called Vanzell. A Devonian like Yovell. It was over twenty years back, when he had been a boy-captain like Adam would soon be.
The Saintes Godschale had dismissed as a sentimental memory. It was not like that to Bolitho. The shattered line of battle, the roar of cannon fire while men fell and died, including his first coxswain, Stockdale, who had fallen protecting him. He glanced at Allday, seeing the same memory on his rugged features. He had been there too, as a pressed man, but one who was still with him as a faithful friend.
Vanzell watched their recognition with satisfaction. Then he said, “I never forget, y’see. ’Ow you helped me an’ th’ wife when I was cast ashore after losin’ me pin to a Froggie ball. You saved us, an’ that’s a fact, zur.” He put down the glass and stared at him with sudden determination.
“I ’eard you was in London, zur. So I come meself. To try an’ repay what you did for me an’ th’ wife, God rest her soul. There’s only me now, but I’ll not forget what ’appened after them bastards raked our decks that day.”
Bolitho sat down and faced him. “What are you doing now?” He tried to conceal the anxiety and urgency in his bearing. This man, this tattered memory from the past, was frightened. For some reason it had cost a lot for him to come.
Vanzell said, “It will lose me me job, zur.” He was thinking aloud. “They all knows I once served under you. They’ll not forgive me, not never.”
He made up his mind and studied Bolitho searchingly. “I’m a watchman, zur, it was all I could get. They’ve no time for half-timbered Jacks no more.” His hand shook as he took another glass from Allday. Then he added huskily, “I’m at th’ Waites, zur.”
“What is that?”
Allday said sharply, “It’s a prison.”
Vanzell downed the glass in one gulp. “They got ’er there. I know, ’cause I saw ’er, an’ I ’eard what the others was sayin’ about you both.”
Bolitho could feel the blood rushing through his brain.
In a prison. It was impossible. But he knew it was true.
The man was saying to Allday, “It’s a filthy place full o’ scum. Debtors an’ lunatics, a bedlam you’d not believe.”
Allday glanced tightly at Bolitho. “Oh, yes I would, matey.”
Bolitho said, “Tell the housekeeper I shall need a carriage at once. Do you know where this place is?” Allday shook his head.
Vanzell said, “I—I’ll show ’ee, zur.”
“Good.” Bolitho’s mind was suddenly clear, as if it had been doused in icy water.
He asked, “Would you care to work for me at Falmouth? There’ll be a cottage.” He looked away, unable to watch the gratitude. “There are one or two old Phalaropes working there. You’ll feel at home.”
Allday came back and handed him his cloak. Bolitho saw that he had donned his best blue coat with the gilt buttons, and he carried a brace of pistols in his other hand.
Allday watched him while he clipped on his sword. “It might still be a mistake, Sir Richard.”
“Not this time, old friend.” He looked at him for a few seconds. “Ready?”
Allday waited for the other man to lead the way to a smart carriage standing outside the door.
The words kept repeating themselves over and over again.
She did not run away. She had not left him.
The Waites prison was just to the north of London and it was almost dark by the time they got there.
It was a grim, high-walled place, and would look ten times worse in daylight.
Bolitho climbed down from the coach and said to Vanzell, “Wait here. You have done your part.” To Allday he added shortly, “So let’s be about it.”
He hammered on a heavy door and after a long pause it was opened just a few inches. An unshaven man, wearing the same uniform as Vanzell, peered out at them.
“Yeh? ’Oo calls at this late hour?” He held up a lantern, and at that moment Bolitho let his cloak fall from his shoulders so that the light glittered on his epaulettes.
“Tell the governor, or whoever is in charge, that Sir Richard Bolitho wishes to see him.” He stared at the man’s confusion and added harshly, “Now!”
They followed the watchman up a long, untidy pathway to the main building and Bolitho noticed
that he was limping. They evidently found it cheaper to employ unwanted ex-servicemen, he thought bitterly. Another door, and a whispered conversation while Bolitho stood in a dank room, his hand on his sword, aware of Allday’s painful breathing close behind him.
Allday gasped as a piercing scream, followed by shouts and thuds, echoed through the building. Other voices joined in, until the place seemed to cringe in torment. More angry yells, and someone banging on a door with something heavy; and then eventual silence again.
The door opened and the watchman waited to allow Bolitho to enter. The contrast was startling. Good furniture, a great desk littered with ledgers and papers, and a carpet which was as much out of place here as the man who rose to greet him.
Short, and jolly-looking, with a curly wig to cover his baldness, he had all the appearances of a country parson.
“Sir Richard Bolitho, this is indeed an honour.” He glanced at a clock and smiled, like a saucy child. “And a surprise at this late hour.”
Bolitho ignored his out-thrust hand. “I have come for Lady Somervell. I’ll brook no argument. Where is she?”
The man stared at him. “Indeed, Sir Richard, I would do anything rather than offend such a gallant gentleman, but I fear that someone has played a cruel game with you.”
Bolitho recalled the terrible scream. “Who do you hold here?”
The little man relaxed slightly. “Lunatics, and those who plead insanity to avoid their debts to society—”
Bolitho walked around the desk and said softly, “She is here and you know it. How could you hold a lady in this foul place and not know? I do not care what name she is given, or under what charge. If you do not release her into my care I will see that you are arrested and tried for conspiracy to conceal a crime, and for falsifying the deeds of your office!” He touched the hilt of his sword. “I am in no mood for more lies!”
The man pleaded, “Tomorrow perhaps I can discover—”
Bolitho felt a strange calm moving over him. She is here. For just a moment the man’s confidence had made him doubt.
He shook his head. “Now.” By tomorrow she would have been taken elsewhere. Anything could have happened to her.
He said curtly, “Take us to her room.”
The little man pulled open a drawer and squeaked with fright as Allday responded instantly by drawing and cocking a pistol in one movement. He raised a key in his shaking hands.
“Please, be careful! ” He was almost in tears.
Bolitho caught his breath as they walked into a dimly lit corridor. There was straw scattered on the flagstones, and one of the walls was dripping wet. The stench was foul. Dirt, poverty and despair. They stopped outside the last door and the little governor said in a whisper, “In God’s name I had naught to do with it! She was given in my charge until a debt was paid. But if you are certain that—”
Bolitho did not hear him. He stared in through a small window which was heavily barred, each one worn smooth by a thousand desperate fingers.
A lantern shone through a thick glass port, like those used in a ship’s hanging magazine. It was a scene from hell.
An old woman was leaning against one wall, rocking from side to side, a tendril of spittle hanging from her mouth as she crooned some forgotten tune to herself. She was filthy, and her ragged clothes were deeply soiled.
On the opposite side Catherine sat on a small wooden bench, her legs apart, her hands clasped between her knees. Her gown was torn, like the day she had come aboard Hyperion, and he saw that her feet were shoeless. Her long hair, uncombed, hung across her partly bared shoulders, hiding her face completely.
She did not move or look up as the key grated in the lock and Bolitho thrust open the door.
Then she whispered very quietly, “If you come near me, I shall kill you.”
He held out his arms and said, “Kate. Don’t be frightened. Come to me.”
She raised her head and brushed the hair from her eyes with the back of her hand.
Still she did not move or appear to recognise him, and for a moment Bolitho imagined that she had been driven mad by these terrible circumstances.
Then she stood and stepped a few paces unsteadily towards him.
“Is it you? Really you?” Then she shook her head and exclaimed, “Don’t touch me! I am unclean—”
Bolitho gripped her shoulders and pulled her against him, feeling her protest give way to sobs which were torn from each awful memory. He felt her skin through the back of the gown; she wore nothing else beneath it. Her body was like ice despite the foul, unmoving air. He covered her with his cloak, so that only her face and her bare feet showed in the flickering lanterns.
She saw the governor in the doorway and Bolitho felt her whole body stiffen away from him.
Bolitho said, “Remove your hat in the presence of my lady, sir! ” He found no pleasure in the man’s fear. “Or by God I’ll call you out here and now!”
The man shrank away, his hat almost brushing the filthy floor.
Bolitho guided her along the corridor, while some of the inmates watched through their cell doors, their hands gripping the bars like claws. But nobody cried out this time.
“Your shoes, Kate?”
She pressed herself against his side as if the cloak would protect her from everything.
“I sold all I had for food.” She raised her head and studied him. “I have walked barefoot before.” Her sudden courage made her look fragile. “Are we really leaving now?”
They reached the heavy gate and she saw the carriage, with the two stamping horses.
She said, “I will be strong. For you, dear Richard, I—” She saw the shadowy figure inside the coach and asked quickly, “Who is that?”
Bolitho held her until she was calm again.
He said, “Just a friend who knew when he was needed.”
13 CONSPIRACY
BELINDA dragged the doors of the drawing room shut behind her and pressed her shoulders against them.
“Lower your voice, Richard!” She watched his shadow striding back and forth across the elegant room, her breasts moving quickly to betray something like fear. “The servants will hear you!”
Bolitho swung round. “God damn them, and you too for what you did!”
“What is the matter, Richard? Are you sick or drunk?”
“It is fortunate for both of us that it is not the latter! Otherwise I fear what I might do!”
He stared at her and saw her pale. Then he said in a more controlled voice, “You knew all the time. You connived with Somervell to have her thrown into a place which is not even fit for pigs!” Once again the pictures flashed across his mind. Catherine sitting in the filthy cell, and later when he had taken her to Browne’s house in Arlington Street, when she had tried to prevent him from leaving her.
“Don’t go, Richard! It’s not worth it! We’re together, that’s all that matters!”
He had turned by the waiting carriage and had replied, “But those liars intended otherwise!”
He continued, “She is no more a debtor than you, and you knew it when you spoke with Somervell. I pray to God that he is as ready with a blade as he is with a pistol, for when I meet with him—”
She exclaimed, “I have never seen you like this!”
“Nor will you again!”
She said, “I did it for us, for what we were and could be again.”
Bolitho stared at her, his heart pounding, knowing how close he had come to striking her. Catherine had told him in jerky sentences as the coach had rolled towards the other house, an unexpected rain pattering across the windows.
She had loaned Somervell most of her own money when they had married. Somervell was in fear of his life because of his many gambling debts. But he had friends at Court, even the King, and a government appointment had saved him.
He had deliberately invested some of her money in her name, then left her to face the consequences when he had caused those same investments to fail. All this Somervell had
explained to Belinda. It made Bolitho’s head swim to realise just how close to success the plan had been. If he had moved into this house, and then been seen at Admiral Godschale’s reception, Catherine would have been told that they were reconciled. A final and brutal rejection.
Somervell had left the country; that was the only known truth. When he returned he might have expected Catherine half-mad or even dead. Like a seabird, Catherine could never be caged.
He said, “You have killed that too. Remember what you threw in my face on more than one occasion after we were married? That because you looked like Cheney, it did not mean that you had anything in common. By God, that was the truest thing you ever said.” He stared round the room and realised for the first time that his uniform was soaked with rain.
“Keep this house, by all means, Belinda, but spare a thought sometimes for those who fight and die so that you may enjoy what they can never know.”
She moved away, her eyes on him as he wrenched open the doors. He thought he saw a shadow slip back from the stairway, something for the servants to chew on.
“You will be ruined!” She gasped as he stepped towards her as if she expected a blow.
“That is my risk.” He picked up his hat. “Some day I shall speak with my daughter.” He looked at her for several seconds. “Send for all you need from Falmouth. You rejected even that. So enjoy your new life with your proud friends.” He opened the front door. “And God help you!”
He walked through the dark street, heedless of the rain which soothed his face like a familiar friend. He needed to walk, to marshal his thoughts into order, like forming a line of battle. He would make enemies, but that was nothing new. There had been those who had tried to discredit him because of Hugh, had even tried to hurt him through Adam.
He thought of Catherine, where she should stay. Not at Falmouth, not until he could take her himself. If she would come. Would she see double-meanings in his words because of what had happened? Expect another betrayal?
He dismissed the thought immediately. She was like the blade at his hip, almost unbreakable. Almost.
Honour This Day Page 19
