The Sugar Merchant’s Wife

by Erica Brown

  If he couldn’t find Sally’s son, he desperately needed to interview the witness who’d fingered him for killing Reuben Trout. Ah yes, he thought grimly, perhaps I should talk to him first.

  Chapter Twenty

  Horatia put her hand to the deed of transfer.

  ‘I’m paying an exorbitant amount for this property. The man must be a crook.’

  ‘Yes, you are, and the man is a crook. This is the man I told you about. He calls himself Sydney Cuthbert, started life as Cuthbert Stoke.’

  ‘So you did.’

  Horatia gritted her teeth. She didn’t like anyone getting the better of her, worst of all a crook. But she had to pay. He had something she wanted. Monk encapsulated it in a nutshell.

  ‘Money well spent, Miss Strong. You’ll double your investment once the property is demolished in order for the new sewers to go through.’

  For a moment she rested her chin on her hand and eyed him thoughtfully. Septimus Monk had his ear to the ground, was shrewd, quick-witted and secretive. He was everything she wanted in a lawyer, a business associate and a fixer. She couldn’t fault his work, a fact she found hard to swallow. She actually liked finding fault in men’s work and the wealthier and cleverer they professed to be, the more she liked it.

  Her eyes fell back to the deed. ‘I congratulate you on getting vacant possession. An odd property. This document describes it as a sugarhouse, and yet people were living there. Was this actually true?’

  Monk nodded. ‘It did indeed used to be a sugarhouse, but the present landlord Mr Cuthbert had divided it into rooms. There were people living there until fairly recently. He charged exorbitant rents, so I understand. He is something of an extortionist.’

  ‘So I see,’ said Horatia wryly. ‘He’s charging me far more than these properties are worth, but at least you got these people out very quickly,’ she added with some surprise.

  ‘Not me personally – an acquaintance skilled in the practicality of such matters. It was very well dealt with.’ Monk looked thoroughly satisfied, like a cat that’s just ate the rat, thought Horatia.

  ‘And the Mathilda?’

  ‘Off on her first voyage on your behalf. I think we can look forward to a very good return on capital. I believe you will be well satisfied with the results.’

  Horatia rose to her feet in a rustle of dark blue silk. ‘I trust I will be. I commend you, Mr Monk. You have so far lived up to your reputation.’

  ‘And you to yours, ma’am.’

  Horatia cocked her head. ‘You do surprise me. I didn’t think I had one.’

  ‘A man’s head on a woman’s shoulders. Quite formidable.’

  ‘Hmm,’ she muttered thoughtfully, unwilling to be flattered by the admiration she saw in his eyes. ‘Pity my father doesn’t think of me the same way. You are an enigma, Mr Monk, in that you are not put off by my gender.’

  He shrugged. ‘Why should I be? My loins are unresponsive to your sex. You and I are of the same mind, Miss Strong,’ he said tapping his forehead. ‘We are aroused by challenge, the thrill of achieving and being different from the rest of our kind.’

  Horatia wasn’t entirely sure she agreed, but was pleased to count on Monk as one of her most trusted allies.

  She swept through to the reception and Monk’s assistant held open the door. Before she’d had half a chance to exit, a big man with a hard face and a shiny head pushed past her.

  ‘Mr Osborne,’ she heard the dark-eyed youth exclaim.

  ‘Where’s Septimus?’ the newcomer demanded loudly. His fists were clenched and he smelled of old gin and raw fish.

  ‘Where he always is.’

  Horatia had glimpsed enough of the newcomer to know that he was part of the darker side of Monk’s life. The boy was brave to tackle him.

  Osborne! The name rang a bell and caused her to linger. Wasn’t that the name of the man who claimed to be the witness of Reuben Trout’s murder? The man who had put Tom in gaol. Could it be a coincidence?

  Osborne barged into Monk’s office. The sound of the door slamming back against the wall sent the windows rattling.

  Horatia exchanged looks with the young man. ‘Who is that man?’

  ‘Silas Osborne.’

  It was the same name. ‘What is he?’

  The boy spat into a brass spittoon. ‘Something to be avoided.’

  * * *

  Tom frowned as he made his way down Steep Street. He’d enquired at a few of his old haunts. He’d bought a few drinks, slapped old friends on the back and mulled over old times. No one knew what had happened to Clarence Ward. He’d checked with Aggie Bennett as the old man had suggested. She confirmed the worst had happened. Clarence had indeed gone to Australia. The results had been disappointing, but he forced himself to be cheerful.

  Steep Street swept down from Ashley Down Heights. At certain points he could have believed he was on top of the world. Spread out before him were the russet tiles and blue slates of roofs. Beyond sailing ship masts and steamship funnels pierced the skyline. People, horses, carts and cabs went about their business in the streets below. Where Steep Street spilled out into Stoke’s Croft, he spotted the dark green carriage in which Horatia had come to pick him up from prison. It was stationary outside an imposing mock Roman edifice of the Queen Anne style building he recognized as being the offices of Horatia’s solicitor, Septimus Monk.

  The carriage horses rattled their harness as he approached. The coachman continued to snore into his coat collar.

  Tom sighed. His day had proved fruitless. A ride back to Marstone Court with a good soak in a tub of hot water at the end of the journey seemed a grand idea.

  * * *

  Silas Osborne was a brute, though not particularly bright. The money Stoke had paid him to lie was gone. Most of it had been spent on drink, gambling and two whores at a time. Word had got to him that he could now make more by telling the truth.

  In the privacy of the inner office, Silas proposed that he be paid £500 to change his story. Septimus offered him £100. Silas agreed. ‘Once I’m paid, I’ll be off. And no one better come after me, or it’ll be the worse for them,’ he growled as he waved a clenched fist.

  Despite the fist, Septimus didn’t even blink as he eyed Silas over his steepled fingers, a habit he always adopted when carefully considering a number of options. His voice was calm and collected. ‘I cannot agree to what you ask without the express consent of the Strong family, though I will advise them to accept your offer.’

  Silas’s laugh was rough and ragged. ‘Strikes me as they’d be stupid not to, unless they wants Tom Strong to hang.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ said Septimus, rising slowly, almost menacingly from his chair, ‘that decision rests with them.’

  Finding himself faced with a larger man than himself, a man not known to be a coward, but one who held a grudge and had ugly acquaintances, Silas opened the door – and found himself face to face with Horatia Strong.

  Horatia, who had heard nothing of the conversation, directed her anger at Monk. ‘What business do you have with this despicable man?’

  Monk appeared unfazed. ‘If you want him to tell the truth and let Captain Strong off the hook, he wants money.’ He regarded her with interest, as though her decision would make or break both her family and Monk’s business.

  She didn’t give it a second thought. ‘Give him it.’

  Silas guffawed, his laughter exposing a set of uneven teeth, chipped and stained yellow. ‘Now there’s a lady who knows what she wants.’

  Tom’s shadow fell in the doorway. ‘What is it she wants?’

  Those in the room swivelled at the sound of his voice. Horatia looked surprised. Monk didn’t. Silas Osborne looked as if he were about to give battle.

  ‘P’raps you,’ he said threateningly, his whole body tensing like a fighting cock suddenly scenting a fight. 'Silas Osborne’, whispered Horatia.

  Tom was instantly on his guard. He’d seen the likes of Silas before around the city taverns; loud-
mouthed bullies who enjoyed inflicting injury – especially on those who couldn’t fight back.

  Preferring not to see Tom hurt, Horatia grabbed his arm and tried to guide him out. ‘Come along, Tom. It’s time we were off.’

  Monk tried to help. ‘In here, sir,’ he said, indicating that Silas should re-enter his office. ‘Perhaps we could have a drink before you go?’

  Silas didn’t move. ‘What about my money? If you want me to tell the truth then I wants my money. Pay me or you hang, Tom Strong.’ He thrust his face close to Tom’s.

  A split second before it happened, Tom sensed the other man’s body readying to strike. Silas raised a fist. Tom warded it off. Silas fell against a chair before landing flat out on the floor. His eyes rolled in his head as he tried to focus.

  Tom’s shadow fell over him. ‘You’ll have nothing from me or my family! You are a liar, Silas Osborne. A liar, a bully and a cheat.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Monk, his grip firm on Tom’s arm, ‘go now. Leave the man to me.’

  Tom faced him. ‘No money is to be paid to this man. He was paid to say he saw something he didn’t. Now he wants money to tell the truth. He’ll not get it. Is that clear?’

  Monk exchanged a look with Horatia.

  Silas Osborne got up onto his elbows, his bloodshot eyes fixed defiantly on Tom. ‘I’ll have my money or you’ll hang.’

  But why?

  For whatever reason, someone had wanted him dead. Before Silas could move, Tom reached down and grabbed him by the throat. ‘Who paid you to lie, Silas? Who paid you?’

  Silas spat a loose tooth from his mouth. A trickle of blood and spittle crept down his chin. ‘No money, no information.’

  The world swam before Tom’s horrified gaze and in the mist and mayhem Silas Osborne sneered up at him, a taunting, mocking caricature of death.

  Driven by an enormous surge of anger, Tom yelled, heaved Silas forward then slammed him back so his head cracked against the floor.

  Horatia screamed.

  Septimus Monk grabbed Tom’s shoulders and pulled him back, before checking Silas Osborne’s pulse. ‘You’ll get nothing more out of him for a few hours,’ he said finally, his voice level. ‘He’s out cold.’ Horatia held her hand to her mouth. ‘He’s not dead?’

  Septimus shook his head. ‘No. Just unconscious.’

  Tom’s chest heaved from the exertion. He stared down at Osborne as if in surprise. This was not what he’d wanted. He’d needed to know who so hated him that they were prepared to see him hang for something he hadn’t done. He turned to Monk. ‘I’m sorry to mess up your office.’

  Monk waved a beefy hand as if it were a rose. ‘Alexander will tidy up.’

  The dark-eyed youth was already picking up folios and bundled deeds that had been knocked to the floor.

  Horatia looked worried. ‘Can we go home now, Tom?’

  He nodded.

  Septimus Monk saw them to their carriage.

  ‘At least we know the truth,’ said Horatia. She looked at Monk. ‘This does mean Tom is free now?’

  Monk’s expression said otherwise. ‘Someone has opened a can of worms,’ he said ominously. ‘No matter what that buffoon in there says, a case has been opened. It would be useful to know who put Osborne up to it, but that aside we have to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Captain Strong is innocent and that this Clarence Ward was the actual perpetrator. So far, I have not been able to find him.’

  Tom sighed and felt for Horatia’s hand in an effort to reassure her, though God knows, he was hardly reassured himself.

  ‘I did hear he might be living in Australia,’ he said to Monk.

  ‘Ah!’ said Monk. ‘That’s inconvenient.’

  ‘And tomorrow Silas Osborne will tell us who opened that can of worms,’ said Tom, his eyes dark with anger, his knuckles stinging from the impact on Osborne’s chin.

  ‘Useful, though a minor matter,’ said Monk. ‘Our prime objective must be to locate Clarence Ward, otherwise your only option is to leave the country. Perhaps you could visit the Strong plantation in Barbados?’

  Tom shook his head. ‘I’m no good at growing sugar, besides Rivermead is run by Otis Strong. He won’t thank me for landing on his doorstep.’

  ‘Think on it. The law is more lax in the colonies towards gentlemen.’

  Horatia looked up at Tom. ‘If you have to go then I’ll go too.’

  ‘Let’s hope it won’t come to that.’ Not for the first time since coming back, he felt he was swimming against the tide and nothing he could do would stop fate having its way.

  Chapter Twenty One

  Otis Strong surveyed the dark cane fields rolling towards the hills where a sickle moon shone as sharp as the blade of a knife. A beautiful sight, but he wasn’t seeing it. His thoughts were elsewhere.

  When Viola, Blanche’s mother, had been alive, he had greatly loved Barbados, mostly because he had loved her, even though she had given birth to his brother Emmanuel’s child. Things had been easier then, though not so easy as when the plantation was established by his grandfather. His word had been law and life had been easy for the family, though hard for those toiling in the fields. Planting sugar cane was back-breaking; harvesting it was worse, the sharp leaves cutting fingers, arms, bodies and faces, which easily became infected. Urine had been the most curative measure for healing cuts and hardening flesh. Even so, most workers only lasted seven years, hence the need for fresh supplies of slaves from Africa.

  Since abolition, things had changed greatly, though for the most part, his own workers accepted their lot. The ‘maroons’ – people of mixed race, a little bit of African, a little bit of Indian, and a little bit of English blood all wrapped up into one – were the problem. Some years before they’d been given their freedom and plots of land in which to grow their own food. Now they were demanding more of a say in government, more land to farm, specifically a part of Rivermead, the largest plantation on the island. The leader of the particular group of maroons threatening him was named Samson Jones. He was coming tonight, had demanded to speak to him ‘in view of past agreements and family ties,’ he had said.

  Otis had not known what he’d meant, but was willing to listen rather than risk the outbreak of violence. There had been too much of that in the past few years. Other landowners had been set upon, some killed. Retribution from the garrison at Bridgetown had been swift. Otis was not a man of violence and preferred compromise to confrontation. Tonight was not going to be easy.

  A crocodile of torches like broken stars wound down the dusty road between the cane fields, broadening as those carrying them filtered through the gate and approached Rivermead House.

  Samson Jones stood head and shoulders above everyone else. His skin shone like waxed wood in the light of the torches and he was well muscled beneath his rough cotton shirt and shin-length trousers. Barefoot and bareheaded, he came to a halt at the head of his band, his jaw firm as rock and his mouth sensually petulant as though he were about to kiss someone rather than demand what he regarded as his rights. He carried a sheath of paper in his left hand, which he waved face high. At the same time he nodded to those around him, his eyes not leaving the face of Otis Strong.

  ‘It was agreed and signed that the land between Rock Ford and Cripple Beach was ceded to us on the death of the owner. We demand our rights. We demand our land.’

  Otis had every intention of keeping his temper; in fact, he’d never been a man for losing it. He’d been given to understand by those in authority, those in Bridgetown who thought they knew everything about what went on in the island, that these people were usurpers, who would destroy property and steal land that wasn’t theirs. The papers being waved looked legal but much as he wanted to compromise, he couldn’t take them at face value. Rivermead was the font of his family’s fortune, passed down from one generation to another. He could imagine what his brother, Emmanuel would say, that he’d always been weak and deserved to be the second son, a mere shadow of his older brother. For once
in his life he had to stand up to these people just as his father and his brother would. Otis felt sick to his stomach. He pulled his waistcoat down more tightly, as if that might help hide his fear. Externally, he did his best to look and sound brave.

  ‘The land you mention belongs to the Strong family. I cannot possibly believe that you have any legal documentation—’

  Samson Jones moved faster than Otis could move. ‘Read it!’ he exclaimed, waving the papers underneath Otis’s chin. ‘Read it! You signed this paper.’

  Otis blinked nervously. He wasn’t as young as he was, but he wasn’t yet that old that he’d lost his memory. He would have remembered if he’d signed any such undertaking, surely?

  ‘Read it!’ shouted Samson, unfurling the paper and pressing it into Otis’s face with his big, brown hands.

  Otis took the paper and eyed the torch flames and the sweating bodies stretched before him. The sight and smell were over-powering, but not so much as the fear that made him want to run into the house and lock and bolt his door against them all. But he couldn’t run. During the exchange with their leader, the glossy-faced throng had fanned out around him, blocking his escape.

  Although he already carried one torch, Samson Jones grabbed another and held both close to Otis’s face, their light and sparks falling onto his coat sleeves and leaving scorch marks. ‘Read it!’ he repeated through gritted teeth, his eyes shining determinedly.

  Shaking and afraid, Otis did as he said, his heart sinking as he read on, checked the signature and saw it was his own. As he read, he remembered.

  ‘I, Otis Strong, bequeath the said section of land to…’

  He read the name again and again, not because he wasn’t sure he’d read it right, or because he didn’t know it. On the contrary, he knew it very well.