by Erica Brown
He’d dreamed that he was back at Marstone Court beneath the elm trees and seeing the park deer eyeing him from a distance. He dreamed of watching Blanche chase a kite with Sir Emmanuel’s other children, her half-brothers and half-sisters as it had turned out, or being alone with her at night, her eyes luminous in the light of a low hanging moon.
The cry of the cockle seller rose again and finally reminded him that he wasn’t in the country, that he was in Bristol and he had to get to the shipyard by eleven. Today would see the launch of the very first steamship of the Strong Shipping Line. A fine future lay ahead and he looked forward to it.
Thoughts of the future and the present fused with the past. He remembered the homeless people he’d seen and the mention of Cuthbert Stoke. He blamed him for the taste in his mouth rather than the dirt of the city.
A servant brought warm water in a Wedgwood ewer. He felt better once he’d splashed his face and stripwashed his body. Throwing back his head, he closed his eyes and took more deep breaths. He thought of yesterday, of Blanche and the fact that she was handing the cottage over to Edith. He knew she’d been there on the last occasion he’d visited Little Paradise and understood why she had pretended she wasn’t. It was foolish for them to be there alone. He would not compromise her reputation. He still loved her but their paths had divided. Their futures lay in different directions.
After buttoning his shirt and trousers, he shrugged himself into his waistcoat. He’d just settled himself on the side of the bed and reached for his boots, when shouts and heavy footsteps sounded from the street below. Boots thudded up the stairs, thundered along the landing. Without knowing why, he felt a tightening in his stomach in reaction to an instinctive fear that the footsteps were coming for him.
Stranger still, it came as no surprise when the door sprang open beneath the weight of heavy fists. Four strangers filtered into the room, their mouths grim and a hardness in their eyes.
‘Captain Thomas Strong?’
The man who spoke had a thinner face than the others and, although he was tall, his shoulders were less broad and his arms moved freely in his sleeves as though his coat had been made for someone much bigger. A long chin rested on his cravat, and he spoke in a nasal tone, his lips hardly seeming to move.
Tom forced himself to be calm and began pulling on his boots. ‘Who wants to know?’
The man with the thin face lifted his head higher. ‘Sergeant Ezekiel Gibb, Her Majesty’s police. I’m here to arrest you for the murder of one Reuben Trout.’
Trout! For a moment it was difficult to unscramble his thoughts, though one thing persisted. Nelson had told him the case was closed.
‘Trout died years ago,’ he managed eventually.
‘A murder is a murder no matter when it was committed,’ said Sergeant Gibb, ‘and we have a witness who says he saw you do it.’
Tom’s blood ran cold. He recalled the ugly face, the boil that seeped a sticky yellow fluid down the side of Reuben Trout’s nose, the loose bottom lip that seemed perpetually drawn away from the yellowing teeth… the greasy clothes… and that night… that terrible night…
‘I didn’t murder him,’ he said calmly. ‘I was merely a witness.’
Gibb’s gaze was unblinking. ‘We have a witness who states that you murdered this man Trout. He’s sworn a statement and says he saw everything.’
Tom shook his head. ‘He’s lying. A boy killed Reuben Trout because he’d killed his mother.’
Gibb raised one eyebrow disbelievingly. ‘And the boy’s name?’
Tom hesitated. He’d told Sally Ward’s son, Clarence, to run away. The boy had deserved a chance and even though Tom had known that suspicion was likely to fall on his own shoulders, he had taken that chance. He now had no choice but to tell the truth. ‘Clarence Ward. His name was Clarence Ward.’
‘And where can we find this Clarence Ward?’
Tom shrugged. ‘I don’t know what happened to him. I left Bristol and so did he.’
‘But you came back, and you’re the one being accused of the murder.’
Tom shook his head. This was a nightmare. Surely he would wake up soon. ‘But I didn’t do it.’
‘Every man is innocent – until proven guilty.’ Gibb looked smug.
Tom was less than convinced of the authenticity of the words – would he be proved innocent despite the evidence of a witness he knew did not exist?
‘What if I refuse to go with you?’
‘Sir!’ bellowed a constable with a ruddy complexion and bushy dark eyebrows. ‘We will make you go with us, sir! We’re policemen, sir!’ With obvious relish, he dangled a set of manacles from his right hand.
Ezekiel Gibb threw him a thunderous expression, though his rebuke was delivered in surprisingly calm tones. ‘Speak when you’re spoken to, Higgins, there’s a good fellow. I am the man in charge here,’ he said, his bushy side-whiskers bristling.
Chastised like a schoolboy caught brandishing his catapult, Higgins swung the manacles behind his back and dropped his gaze to the ground.
‘We’ll trust you as a gentleman to come quietly,’ Ezekiel Gibb said. ‘Do you have a statement to make, sir?’
Gibb was awkwardly deferent, obviously preferring to arrest a known villain from the rougher quarters of town where a heavy hand was of more use than a kid glove. Tom found himself almost pitying the man, though his sympathy didn’t prevent him from defending himself.
‘Reuben Trout deserved to die. The man was a pig. I had reason to kill him – although I didn’t. He’d killed Sally Ward, Clarence’s mother, and Jimmy Palmer, master of the Miriam Strong training ship when he set it ablaze. After making enquiries, I discovered his whereabouts from a man named Cuthbert Stoke, an ostler, pimp, and fight fixer, who was also a font of local criminal information. I believe he calls himself Councillor Cuthbert nowadays.’
Gibb eyed him speculatively and sniffed. ‘Be in no doubt, Captain Strong, the rope would have stretched this Reuben Trout’s windpipe, but, as it is…’
‘You aim for it to stretch mine!’
Gibb looked sheepish.
Tom was worried. After all this time, the death of a dockside ruffian should have been long forgotten. Nelson had assured him it was. But someone had remembered. Someone had wanted to remember, and that someone – for whatever reason – had wanted him arrested.
‘Why did this man come forward now?’ he asked as he reached into a cupboard set into an alcove beneath the eaves and brought out a well-cut navy blue overcoat with caped shoulders and velvet-edged sleeves. All four policemen scrutinized him as he put it on; best quality wool compared to their rough serge.
Gibb said, ‘Apparently he had to join his regiment immediately. He assumed someone else would report it. In the meantime, he was posted to foreign parts.’
Tom racked his brain as he buttoned his coat. He couldn’t think of any military man he’d known back then. Besides, there’d been no one in the stable when he’d found Reuben Trout except for Clarence.
‘Am I allowed to know this man’s name?’
‘I don’t see why not. His name is Osborne. Silas Osborne.’
The name meant nothing to him. The stable had been dark. He couldn’t know for sure that someone had been watching, though if they had they would have known the truth, that Clarence had killed Reuben. It could only be that he was standing witness for money, but who would want to do that and why?
‘If you’d like to come quietly, sir… We don’t want any trouble.’
Gibb spoke as if he were straining his words through his teeth, leaving in his throat those that were not needed.
Tom reached for his gloves, soft leather ones made for him back in Boston and purchased by his wife. Looking at them instantly triggered happy memories. They’d had a good marriage. Had she lived, he thought grimly, he wouldn’t be in this mess. In an odd way it made him angry with her for being dead, as if she had not loved him enough to live.
Once outside, he took a deep breath of ai
r and promptly swallowed the sootiness that clung to the bridge of his mouth. His fear was far more difficult to swallow. Like a lump of lead, it sat on his tongue and tasted bitter.
This couldn’t be happening to him. It was unreal, and he half wondered if he were still asleep and Blanche would come along flying a kite, the younger Strong children – Horatia, Rupert, Arthur and George – running along behind her.
The city was bustling with people going about their daily business, merging and re-emerging from the yellow mist that oozed from the quayside and glided along the street. They were forced to pause as a convoy of sleds carrying barrels of sugar skidded over the cobbles. Tom watched each one pass. More memories, this time of his old friend Conrad Heinkel and the times they’d spent together at the sugar refinery. Sometimes they’d smoke and sit silently, comfortable in the company of friends. Sometimes they’d dunk chunks of raw chocolate into cups of steaming, sweet coffee and talk about sugar, ships and the joys of travelling the world.
As they waited for the sleds to pass so they could cross the road, his eyes slid sidelong to the narrow alley that led to the quay where his ship, Demerara Queen lay at anchor. He considered running away, hoisting the sails and setting off.
What a foolish idea. If he headed for his ship, they’d be right behind him and Demerara Queen was a sailing ship. It would take an hour just to find a tug to get them out of the harbour – depending on whether the tide was in.
He considered losing himself among the traffic. There was plenty of it nowadays, more than he remembered. Carts laden with hay and straw, beer and bread, sacks of raw chocolate, cases of wine and carcasses, cleaned and gutted and ready for butchering. Packhorses up from Cheddar, sacks of cheese and strawberries dangling from their backs, chaises, governess carts, growlers and landaus carrying ladies intent on shopping in Castle Street or Queen’s Road.
They were all going somewhere and coming back again, he thought grimly, whereas he was going somewhere but quite possibly wouldn’t be coming back.
Chapter Eighteen
Flags had been draped between the steamship’s mighty masts and her huge funnel. The shipwrights who had built her attended the launch with their families. The faces of their wives and children were scrubbed and bright, their clothes freshly laundered for the occasion. The men stood with heads held high, proud of the ironclad ship that would shortly sail the oceans once the final touches were made.
Prior to joining the VIPs who’d already arrived on the launch platform, Horatia stood with her father and half-brother, Rupert. Nelson had gone to fetch Tom from the Greyhound Inn after a Scottish engineer, his eyes still bleary from the night before, told them where he was.
Horatia tapped her foot impatiently. He should be here. Why did he have to go and get drunk last night of all nights?’ As long as he’s alone, she thought desperately, and not in the company of some common whore – he’d known enough of them in the past.
‘If he’s not here when the Lord Mayor’s carriage appears, we launch without him,’ said her father, his eyes suddenly straying from his watch to a dark-skinned young woman, the daughter of a shipwright judging by her clothes.
You’re a slobbering lecher, Horatia thought, eyeing him disdainfully and wondering if Tom would end up the same. No. She couldn’t contemplate it; she wouldn’t allow it to happen.
The mayoral carriage, pulled by two magnificent Irish chestnuts, appeared on time. A brass band specially hired for the occasion struck up ‘Trelawny’ as the mayor stepped down.
Sober for once, Sir Emmanuel greeted the official dignitaries and their wives, oozing charm and conviviality. Rupert followed him. Horatia made an excuse and went looking for Tom.
She paced backwards and forwards, in and out of the wooden shed where the iron ship lay surrounded by admirers.
Where was he? Jealousy overrode her natural common sense. Another woman! That’s what it was. And he was probably naming the ship after her. Blanche! He would name the ship for Blanche Heinkel, and he had no right to do that. What would her husband say? What would society say? But none of that really mattered to her. She didn’t want the ship named after any other woman. She wanted it named after her and had hoped that was his intention. Now she wasn’t so sure.
As she headed for the main gate, the Scotsman who had told them Tom was staying at the Greyhound barred her way. ‘Excuse me, ma’am. It’s the name, ma’am. That’s why we were at the foundry so late last night, and seeing as it was hotter than hell in there, begging your pardon, ma’am, we wetted our whistles…’
‘Yes, yes, you’ve already told us that. My brother has now gone to fetch him – presuming he’s where he said he was going.’
‘We went to the foundry for this…’ He held out something wrapped in mutton cloth.
Before she had chance to take it, Rupert interrupted. ‘Horatia. The dry dock’s been filled with water. She’s ready for launching. Do you know what you have to do? Do you know the ship’s name?’
His sister’s jaw dropped. ‘No. I’m afraid I do not.’ She couldn’t help speaking sharply. Tom’s presence at the launch meant so much to her, especially as she still hoped he was naming it after her. Not that she would ever admit such a thing – except to Tom.
Rupert looked astounded. His cheeks were like pink icing. ‘Good God, woman. You’re supposed to be throwing a bottle at its side shortly and you don’t even know what to name it?’
Horatia was not going to take this lying down. ‘Tom kept it to himself,’ she said through gritted teeth.
‘Begging your pardon, ma’am,’ interrupted the Scotsman, ‘but that was what I was trying to tell you. It’s on here.’ He handed her the bundle wrapped in mutton cloth. ‘It’s the brass nameplate for the bulkhead in front of the helm. That’s the name Tom wanted.’ Loud applause came from the direction of the ship as yet another speech ended.
Rupert cupped his sister’s elbow. ‘The speeches are over – thank God! Now for the pièce de résistance.’
She refused to let her half-brother carry the heavy brass plate. Holding it close to her body, she ran into the shed and up the steps to the launching platform. Smiling, she bobbed her head at every bewhiskered gentleman, including the mayor, and offered swift praise for a hat, a dress or good health to the ladies.
There was a table in front of her on which she rested the plaque, still swathed in its cloth. The suspense was unbearable, but she had resisted the urge to unwrap it. Slowly, her heart beating twenty to the dozen, she finally unfolded the cloth from around its precious cargo and saw the name Tom had chosen. Her heart skipped a beat. Her face burned and her throat was dry.
The lord mayor asked, ‘Are you ready, my dear?’
She let the cloth fall back onto the plaque and nodded. ‘Yes. I’m ready.’
Someone handed her the bottle of champagne. She gripped it firmly, ready to swing it towards its target as she fought the twin demons of anger and disappointment. Could she really do this? Yes, she said to herself. Tom Strong couldn’t be bothered to attend the launch of this ship, so why should it matter to him? Yes, she decided. Of course you can.
‘I name this ship…’ She paused, reconsidered, then drew herself to her full height and swung the bottle with all her might. ‘Horatia Strong!’
A loud roar of approval exploded from the crowd, as the bottle smashed against the ship’s side. Tugboat engines burst into life, and the iron ship with her four masts and huge funnel was pulled backwards. The band played and the cheers kept coming. Horatia shook hands with the mayor and other city dignitaries.
She didn’t see Rupert uncover the plaque, or his expression harden. She didn’t hear Donald McGregor complain to Rupert that a new plaque would have to be made.
Horatia was flushed with happiness and clapped along with everyone else. Once the applause had ended and the ship lay on the water, the VIPs filtered off to partake of the luscious spread laid out for important people in the shipbuilder’s private house. The feast for lesser mortals was hel
d in the building shed.
Horatia declined the arm of a city alderman and turned to take Rupert’s instead. They were the last to leave. Rupert’s expression was less than amiable.
‘How could you!’ he exclaimed angrily.
‘Did I do something wrong?’ she asked, her face flushed from the excitement of the occasion.
He eyed her accusingly, his jaw bristling with anger. ‘That depends on one’s point of view.’
Her smile faded when she saw what he was holding. The cloth the plaque had been wrapped in fell to the ground. The brass flashed with light as he turned it to face her. It said Miriam Strong.
Horatia couldn’t stand criticism and turned instantly defensive. ‘The plaque can be used again. He can name the next ship after her. I don’t see that it matters.’
Rupert shook his head. ‘Sometimes I can hardly believe I’m related to you. Don’t you have any feelings at all? It mattered to him that this one was named after Aunt Miriam and the ship that was destroyed, where he trained.’
Much as she liked being regarded as a confident, powerful woman, Horatia hated anyone implying that she was insensitive. Pouting childishly, she said, ‘She’s already had a ship named after her.’
‘It went up in flames. Tom chose that name for a reason. He feels he owes everything to Uncle Jeb and Aunt Miriam. They brought him up. He loved them and they loved him.’
‘But I wanted this ship named after me, Rupert. I’ve waited for years for Tom to come back. Now he’s here, and having him name a ship after me matters so much that it hurts.’
‘But he didn’t want it named after you,’ said Rupert, his expression twisted with rage. ‘It’s up to you to tell him what you’ve done. I’m certainly not going to.’ With that, he threw the plaque at her feet.
Horatia stared down at it. It was too late now to have second thoughts, but it didn’t stop them coming. Her voice quivered nervously. ‘You’re right. I shouldn’t have. What am I going to say to him?’
‘Damned if I know. You made your bed, you lie on it,’ Rupert said and stormed off.
