by Erica Brown
Chapter Eight
Edith caught glimpses of herself in the panes of a chandler’s window as she dashed along the road with young Freddie clinging to her flapping skirt. She’d pinned her unruly locks into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, though a few curls had already escaped, straggly and wildly curling across her face. Her dress was newly laundered and used to be dark blue. It was slate grey now after years of washing, and there were patches sewn beneath the arms where the material had rotted as a consequence of sweat and hard work. Sadly, it was the best she had, one of only two she owned. God, but there were times she wished she were still in service to the Strong family at Marstone Court. At least she’d been decently dressed and fed, and they’d had plenty of soap and water – enough to take a wash every day if she pleased.
Freddie ran alongside, a wooden pail bouncing against his grubby knees. Every so often she glimpsed him looking up at her, his mouth hanging open.
Edith marched on, heart pounding like a pair of bellows. ‘That bloody Molly McBean,’ she muttered, her overlarge shoes slapping against the cobbles like a sprightly carthorse. Yesterday she’d wanted to follow Tom and thank him for the money, and it wouldn’t have hurt to ask for a little more. She wasn’t proud. She had children to feed. But Molly had come, shrieking on about how her little one was ill and what should she do. Molly was the reason that Tom’s money hadn’t gone as far as it should. Edith felt sorry for her neighbour who had the misfortune to live in the cellar. Worse place in any house was a cellar. Black mould grew out from the plaster and fungus sprouted like sturdy shelves in the corners.
Much as she’d tried to revive it, the baby was dead; another little soul taken long before it should be and left wrapped up in rags on a shelf in front of the window. Sad, thought Edith, but there, that was Lewins Mead for you. Death was like a dockside tart – hanging around on every street corner – only with a wider choice of clientele.
They erupted from the side alley and into the wide thoroughfare that was Broad Quay, near St Augustine’s Quay. Masts and spars pierced the morning mix of sunlight and mist, which made them seem as sparse as poplars, black and stripped of their leaves.
Freddie’s little legs hurried faster as he pointed excitedly. That one.’
Edith came to a halt, looked then stepped on the gangplank of a sizeable ship and went aboard.
‘Ahoy there!’ She giggled at the expression, but it seemed appropriate. She’d heard sailors shout that all along the quay. ‘Anyone there?’ Craning her neck, she peered over the deck for any sign of movement.
‘I am.’
Edith almost jumped out of her wits. There he was, big as life before her, yet she hadn’t seen him. The thought unnerved her, and the sight of him unnerved her further. He was big, broad-shouldered and bare-armed; his hair was like a black cloud hanging down his back.
Freddie recognized Jim Storm Cloud and sucked in his breath. ‘That’s the first mate and his skin’s that colour because he’s an injun from America! He told me to bugger off at first but we’re best mates now. He tells me stories.’
‘Does he now?’ muttered Edith, her gaze fixed on the mountainous man coming towards her. The slanting rays of the morning sun lengthened his shadow, making him seem larger than he actually was – and that was quite large enough.
Freddie had told her all about him, but the sight of him still left her speechless.
Once she’d regained control of her tongue, which in the interim had cleaved to the roof of her mouth, she stated why she was there, her hand resting on her hip and her chin held high.
‘I’ve come to see Captain Tom. I’m an old friend of his.’ She said it loudly – enough to frighten him and give her the courage she needed to carry on. ‘I want to thank him for a favour he did me – a respectable favour I might add, just in case you was thinking anything else.’
Stony-faced, Jim Storm Cloud looked her up and down.
Sensing his disbelief, Edith rolled up her sleeves as though she had every intention of giving as good as she got should he fancy his chances of throwing her off the ship. With a determined clatter of her sloppy shoes, she thrust her nose as close to his as she was able; it barely reached his chin.
‘I am an old friend.’ She was almost tempted to stamp her foot, but remembered how loose and worn-out her shoes were. They were all she had and she couldn’t risk losing them in the dirty water that eddied around the mooring.
Jim Storm Cloud seemed unimpressed by her threatening stance. ‘Well, you won’t find him here!’
Edith cocked her head like an angry old hen. ‘So where will I find him?’
‘None of your business.’
His mouth snapped shut just inches from her face.
‘No need to snap me nose off! And anyway, it is my business. I am an old friend, I just told you that, you foreign git! What’s the matter with you? Got jam in yer ears?’
Storm Cloud looked dumbstruck for a moment, as though it suddenly came to him that she might – just might – be telling the truth.
‘And I am Freddie’s mother,’ she said suddenly.
The Red Indian leaned on the ship’s rail and eyed St Augustine’s Quay as though he was thinking about buying it for a knock-down price. He looked at her and she looked back, fascinated by his gleaming skin, his imposing height and the fact that his muscles bulged like potatoes beneath his skin.
Sharp eyes shone from within a face that looked as though weather from every four corners of the globe had beaten it around at some time or another. After thinking about it, he looked round and said, ‘I think we’ve agreed that Tom Strong is a good man.’
‘The best! Will you thank him for me? That money he gave me was the difference between life and death for the likes of us.’ Her confidence waned as she wondered what her and Freddie must look like – scruffy, dirty, threadbare, poor. She felt mortified when he looked her up and down.
‘I think he will want me to give you this,’ he said, and handed her a few shillings.
She started to protest.
He held up his hand. ‘You are an old friend. What are friends for? Captain Strong would approve. His friends are my friends.’
Edith clutched the coins to her chest. ‘That’s really kind of you.’
He shrugged and, for the first time, his granite face broke into a smile.
Suddenly, she felt like a young girl again. She didn’t know this man, but she liked the way he talked and his sentiments about Tom Strong were good enough to consider him a friend.
‘What about the water, Ma?’
‘Oh, ah! I forgot.’ Edith sighed. ‘Silly cow, ain’t I?’
Together they went to the Quay Pipe. Edith felt Storm Cloud’s eyes on them. Pushing fiercely at the pipe handle, she told herself not to be a silly goose. She was a married woman with a houseful of children and shouldn’t be thinking such thoughts. Brooding on children took her thoughts to Deke Beasley, her husband. Like Jim Storm Cloud, he was a seafaring man – but that was where all similarities ended. Soon he’d be home and her poor but happy little world would be turned upside-down.
Freddie placed the pail beneath the waterspout. Caught up with her thoughts, Edith could barely find the strength to turn the stiff iron bar that operated the ancient standpipe.
‘Let me, Ma.’
Edith moved aside. Freddie grunted with effort, his ragged sleeves falling back to reveal his scrawny little arms.
Storm Cloud saw the thin arms and muttered under his breath. No child should be that thin, though he’d seen enough of his own people like that, dying from disease and starvation at the coming of the white man. He’d been one of the lucky ones, taken in by Tom’s father-in-law, educated then given a job on a ship. Although he’d been willing to thrash Freddie when they’d first met, he now found himself admiring the little rascal.
Edith gave the stiff tap another good tug, hunching her shoulders and putting her back into it. The old ironwork, blighted by age, stayed stiffly shut.
Stor
m Cloud pushed them both gently aside. ‘I will do that for you.’
Taking hold of the handle with hands made tough by years before the mast, he gave one good tug and water gushed from the pipe, filling the pail and spilling onto the dirty ground.
Once he’d turned the pipe off, he handed the pail to Freddie. ‘There you are, son.’
Freddie took the pail. Edith thanked him.
Jim screwed up one eye as though there was more to Edith’s relationship with Tom than she was admitting to. He eyed her, eyed Freddie, and then eyed her again.
‘We were just friends,’ she said hotly once she’d cottoned on to what he was most likely thinking.
He grinned, his bright eyes twinkling wickedly. ‘Just a thought, ma’am, just a thought. No offence intended, and I hope none taken.’
‘I don’t suppose so,’ said Edith with a haughty sniff. She was taken aback by what he said next.
‘So you knew the captain before he was married?’
Caught unawares, though disinclined to show surprise, Edith stumbled to speak. ‘Course I did. Before he left Bristol, that was.’
Hurt pride made her cocky, which was silly because her and Tom had never had that sort of relationship. It was Blanche he’d loved, which had irked Horatia Strong something chronic. Still, she had to admit to being surprised that Tom had married. Although he’d never shown her anything but friendliness, somehow she couldn’t help feeling betrayed, though Lord knows, she knew where his heart lay.
‘A good man. The best of captains.’
‘Yes,’ said Edith, her gaze fixed on his noble face, aware that her mouth was hanging open, but unable to do anything about it. For once she couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
Jim Storm Cloud nodded, his look a mix of intent and sullen abandonment. She guessed he was not a man for showing his feelings overmuch. He turned abruptly away. Their meeting was at an end.
Edith’s romantic memories of Tom became completely and abruptly drowned in reality. Tom’s love and affection had been for Blanche. Any fool could have seen that. And that, Edith Beasley, is what you are, she said to herself. A fool! Nothing but a bloody fool!
That Jim Storm Cloud’s got a lovely voice and would make two of my Deke, she thought then. She blushed and shook herself, though the vision of him stayed firmly in her head.
‘Come on,’ she said to Freddie, who was struggling single-handedly with the bucket. ‘Let me give you a hand.’
Water slopped from the pail on their way back to Cabot’s Yard, but Edith hardly noticed. She was poor, hungry and worn out with childbearing, looking far older than her thirty-two years. Nothing in her world would ever change unless something quite wonderful happened.
Chapter Nine
‘Your pieces of silver,’ said Stoke as he tossed a bag of coins over the door of the sleek landau in which he was travelling.
The bag landed in a puddle at the feet of Silas Osborne.
Stoke was pleased. Everything was going as planned. He’d have his revenge on Tom Strong for throwing him across that bar, breaking his leg, and for throwing that fight, which had almost made him bankrupt. He’d had to keep a low profile for a while after. It was during that time that he’d left brothel-keeping behind and bought old, run-down properties in a less fashionable part of the city where rats were as numerous as people.
Grim-faced, Osborne bent slowly to retrieve the bag. There was a sneer on his face as he straightened. He had not relished having to stoop for what he regarded as well-earned cash, and it showed. He squinted and tilted his head to one side. ‘No need to be so sharp, Stoke. We goes back a long way, you and me. Almost friends, you might say, and who knows when you’ll be wantin’ me services again?’ Stoke snorted as though he’d just been subjected to a particularly obnoxious odour.
‘I do not wish to be reminded of that particular fact. I just hope you’ll remember to appear in court when you’re called as a witness.’
‘Won’t you have to get the bobbies to look at things again, Stoke? After all, it was a long time ago. They don’t like looking into old cases when they got so many new ones to deal with.’
‘Leave that to me, Osborne. Just make sure you’re around to bear witness or you’ll be the one in prison.’
‘Don’t threaten me, Stoke,’ said Osborne, leaning closer. ‘Just you make sure I gets the other half of my money, or I’ll be bearing witness against you.’
Stoke grimaced and wrinkled his nose. Osborne stunk. ‘You’re a pig of the highest order, Osborne, and very bad for business along the docks, so I hear. How many trollops have you beaten up this week?’
Osborne scowled. ‘I seem to remember that you didn’t exactly have a light touch.’
‘I demanded discipline. I didn’t beat them senseless purely for the pleasure of it.’ Stoke jabbed his coachman in the back with a silver topped cane. ‘Drive on, Magnus.’
Magnus barely had time to let off the brake when Osborne’s thick hands slapped heavily onto the carriage door, dragging it slowly to a hesitant walk.
Osborne’s eyes reddened beneath his bushy black brows. ‘Too fine to pass the time of day with yer old friends then, Stoke? So bloody fine that you arrange to pay me what’s due in the street for carrying out yer dirty work, not invite me to yer house in Clifton? ’Fraid I might upset yer fine-feathered friends?’
Stoke flinched. Few people – those who knew that is – dared to remind him of his past. He was a gentleman nowadays and thought he deserved to be treated as such.
‘How dare you!’ he growled, the brim of his hat falling with his frown.
Before Osborne could move, there was a sound of crunching bone as the silver-topped cane slammed down on his hoary knuckles.
Most men would have yelled, whipped their hands away and blown and sucked on their injured parts until they were bearable, but not Osborne. The brute barely flinched, though the blow must have hurt.
Urged on by the coachman, the carriage moved forward. With a bellow of rage, Osborne flung himself at the carriage, his body thudding against its side.
Stoke’s mouth dropped open as Osborne gripped the carriage door with his brawny fingers and brought it to a lurching stop. The horses neighed and tossed their heads, sawing their mouths against the bite of the bit.
Osborne’s flaccid lips spread over a mouthful of decaying teeth, and his chill, blue eyes were mere pinpricks in his narrowed gaze. ‘No matter yer fine clothes, Cuthbert Stoke, you’ll always be a snake, a cur, a turd from the gutter!’
‘Drive on,’ Stoke shouted. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead and ran down his nose.
‘Turd!’ snarled Osborne as, with one almighty tug, he wrenched the carriage door off its hinges.
‘Drive! Drive! Drive!’ shouted Stoke, his voice high with hysteria.
‘Turd!’ shouted Osborne again and sent the door flying through the air.
The coachman whipped the horses on. ‘Do you want to go back and deal with him, sir?’ he asked over his shoulder, his voice trembling with terror and his brown face turning alarmingly white.
‘I haven’t got time for that, you bloody fool!’ Stoke shrieked. ‘I’m an important man. I have a meeting to attend and I must be there. Now drive on. Drive on!’
To his coachman’s surprise, Stoke leapt forward, grabbed the whip and cracked it fiercely across the backs of the matching Flemish roans.
‘Faster! Faster! I must not be late for the meeting.’
It was only a half-truth. Even if he hadn’t been going to an important meeting, he would never have dared rebuke Silas Osborne. The man was an animal, a giant of a man with a temper to match. Stoke realized too late that he’d pushed him too far.
A few minutes later, a liveried footman ushered him into the presence of Sir Stanley Moorditch, a noted judge and epicurean. It was rumoured, amongst other things, that he had special furniture made to take his enormous bulk. Stoke could believe it. The man was a monster.
Much to his satisfaction, Stoke was s
hown into the library. A triumphant expression came over his face as he gazed around him at the book-filled shelves lining the walls. This was exactly the room he’d wanted to be in.
‘What can I do for you, Mr Cuthbert?’ Sir Stanley asked once both were sitting comfortably with glasses of port.
‘I want a murderer arrested.’
‘Really? Any particular murderer in mind, or are you not particularly choosy?’
Stoke smiled dutifully at the judge’s joke. He’d heard similar many times before. ‘It happened ten years ago…’
Stoke outlined the case of Reuben Trout, how the man had been found in a stable with his head smashed in, and that it was common knowledge that Captain Tom Strong had vowed to kill him.
Sir Stanley indicated that he’d taken in the facts with a series of nods. ‘And you say this happened ten years ago?’
‘That is correct.’
The judge hissed through his teeth. ‘Well, it’s not unknown for closed cases to be re-opened, but tell me, I’m curious, why do you want this?’
Stoke smiled. ‘The murderer has only lately returned to the city. Let us just say that as a respectable citizen I wish to see justice done.’
Moorditch shook his head. ‘I cannot see such a thing happening. There would need to be very good evidence. Rumour that Captain Strong actually did the deed is not enough.’
‘A new witness has come forward.’ He did not mention that the witness was also the man that had brought him the news of Tom’s return, and that he was being paid to commit perjury.
‘Oh? And why didn’t he come forward at the time?’
The lie rolled smoothly off Stoke’s tongue. ‘He was a soldier and had to join his regiment immediately. He didn’t think his evidence would matter that much.’
‘Ah!’
Sir Stanley pondered on the matter, his brow furrowed as he took a sip of port.
Stoke guessed what was going through his mind; no one wanted to upset the Strong family if they could possibly avoid it. They were rich, they were powerful and, pulling the right strings, Tom could easily get away with it. Well, I have strings I can pull too, he thought.
