by Erica Brown
Deke Beasley opened and shut his mouth like a fish gasping for air. He certainly couldn’t speak in his defence, mostly because Blanche wouldn’t let him.
Blanche thought through everything Dr Budd had said; that drains filled up and allowed sewage to seep into fresh water. Deke had no doubt used the privy in Cabot’s Yard, but then, she thought, eyeing his dirty but healthily round face, he wasn’t ill. It was Molly who was dead.
Blanche patted Edith’s shoulders, but didn’t take her eyes off Deke Beasley. ‘I’m wrong. Molly probably picked it up on the day we went there when the storm water filled the drains and ran into the well.’
Deke Beasley guffawed, a loud, short noise. ‘Well, there you are then.’
Blanche shot him an accusing look. ‘But I’d still like to boil you in oil!’ She turned to Freddie, who was glaring at his father, anger burning in his eyes. ‘Freddie. Get someone from the harbourmaster’s office. Tell them there’s a man here who’s jumped quarantine.’
‘Hey, you little swine,’ Deke shouted, and sprang to catch him, but Freddie was quick and bolted out of the door.
‘You wouldn’t turn me in, would you?’ he said to Blanche.
Blanche ignored him.
‘What about the one that’s sick? Poor little mite. No one to look after it,’ said Edith.
Deke patted his wife on the shoulder and murmured, ‘Now then, old girl…’
Blanche looked at him incredulously. The man could turn as swiftly as a coin and she would have liked to have given him a piece of her mind, but there were more important matters to attend to. ’I’ll see that she’s taken to the hospital,’ she said, tossing her coat over one arm, and grabbing her gloves and purse. ‘You can come with me if you like, Edith.’
Deke attempted to reassert himself, strutting like a turkey, as though he were ten feet tall. ‘No need for that. She’ll be all right with me.’
‘It is obvious she will not,’ cried Blanche.
‘Who do you think—’
Blanche fetched him a sharp clout around the ear. Deke Beasley was stunned to silence.
‘Get out of my house this minute. Return to your ship, or otherwise it’s clink for you when Freddie gets back.’
Rubbing his reddening ear and looking astounded that someone – especially a woman – would have the guts to lay a hand on him, he began backing towards the door. Blanche kept pace with him, her hand pointing over his shoulder towards the door.
‘Your ship or Bristol Gaol. Out!’
Deke Beasley’s eyes flicked nervously to his wife and back to Blanche. He managed a nervous laugh. ‘You wouldn’t really turn me in, would you?’
‘Absolutely!’
One look at her face and Deke’s decision was swift, and his feet were even swifter.
Edith didn’t bother to look up when he went but kept her face hidden in her hands. When she did emerge, her expression was anguished, and her ire was directed at Blanche.
‘Now look what you’ve done. What are me and the kids going to live on now that he’s gone? We need the wage. Without it, we’re lost.’
Blanche threw back her head and closed her eyes. She had overlooked the practicalities of Edith’s existence in her enthusiasm to do good.
‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured. ‘You’re right.’ She fumbled in her purse. ‘I’ll make up the shortfall myself. Better keeping you poor and alive, than paying for you to be buried.’
‘I know he ain’t much good, but having him was better than starving.’
Blanche looked at her incredulously. ‘Is it? How often did he beat you, Edith? How often did he spend most of his wages in the tavern?’
Edith hung her head and sank back onto her knees.
‘Take this.’ A sovereign, Blanche decided, would feed them for a while until she could persuade Conrad to use his influence at St Peter’s hospital where the Board of Burgesses dispensed a weekly allowance to those without enough to live on. ‘Go on. Take it.’ Blanche prised Edith’s fingers open and pressed the coin into her palm. ‘Regard it as your wages for this week.’
Edith sighed. ‘What about Molly and her kids?’
Blanche looked at her friend’s lined face. She was thirty-two, and although she’d always look older than her years, in these last weeks Blanche fancied she’d seen an improvement. But at this moment she looked as worn-out as when they’d been reunited on St Augustine’s Quay.
Edith was asking her to intervene. She could hardly do otherwise. ‘I’ll make sure the child is taken into the hospital. Doctor Budd will do his best for her. Do you want to come?’
Edith shook her head. ‘I don’t think I can bear it.’
When Blanche looked back at Little Paradise, Edith was standing in the doorway under the twisted wood of its canopy. Two daughters were standing on either side of her, their heads leaning into her skirt as though she were a big, soft pillow.
And she is, thought Blanche with a small smile. Molly McBean had known that very well.
‘Cabot’s Yard,’ she said to John as he helped her into the carriage.
He looked surprised, even worried, not surprising given their last experience in the place. But he knew better than to question.
When they got to St Augustine’s Quay, John insisted he find a boy to hold the horses so he could accompany her. His face was a picture of distaste as he followed her and observed once again the ramshackle surroundings, the dirty children and the stink of human waste.
‘Goodness, Mrs Heinkel. What would the master say if he saw you frequenting a place like this?’
‘He’d pray that God would protect me,’ Blanche retorted.
John didn’t argue with that. He knew it was true. Conrad Heinkel was a good man, incapable of thinking an uncharitable thought or carrying out an unrighteous action. He glanced nervously from side to side, jumping at the slightest noise and movement, and glad he’d had the time and foresight to slide a pistol into his belt.
The smell of filth worsened. John coughed. Blanche soldiered on, her heart pounding as she contemplated what she would find. She prayed she’d stay healthy.
The doorway of Edith’s old house seemed even more crushed by the overhead beam than when she’d last seen it. It had also taken on a certain significance. Deke Beasley must have loved this house. The size of the doorway matched his height and diminished his inferiority.
However, the man who came out of what had been Edith’s house today was tall and broad-shouldered, with skin that shone like copper.
Blanche recognized Jim Storm Cloud. He looked devastated.
‘I came to see Edith,’ he explained in response to her questioning expression. ‘I was told a woman and her children was dead and thought it was her, but it wasn’t.’
‘I understand it’s her neighbour and children. Are they all dead?’
‘All except the youngest.’ There was no joy in his eyes, just a flat, lifeless expression like a shutter brought down over a window. ‘Cholera. Agents of the harbourmaster have been around. Apparently her husband’s ship rides at anchor sporting a yellow flag.’
‘So I hear.’ Blanche’s heart slid to her boots.
‘Captain Tom is well,’ he added, although she did not remember voicing a question.
‘I’m glad,’ she said, and suddenly Tom’s image swam before her eyes. She blinked and he was gone. She gathered her thoughts. ‘Have burial arrangements been made for Molly and her children?’
‘I told Captain Tom what had happened. He has made arrangements.’
He would. His kindness made her smile. ‘I should have known. And the youngest child? Where is she?’
‘He took her to the hospital of the man who fights cholera. He told me to tell you so.’
She opened her mouth thinking to ask how Tom knew she would be coming. Jim pre-empted her.
‘He did not know for sure you would come. He just felt you would.’
Chapter Twenty Five
Septimus Monk modelled himself on Francis Walsingham, hea
d of Elizabeth I’s network of secret police and spies. And like Walsingham, he had a sexual preference for men – young men, the younger the better.
Although principally running a law practice from his home and office in Little Prussia Lane, a stone’s throw from the square tower of St James’s Barton, in Stoke’s Croft he maintained a network of spies throughout the city; useful in the procurement both of information and young flesh.
Michael, the young lad who had recently become his favourite, entered the office carrying a silver tray, which held a ship’s sherry decanter and two squat glasses.
Michael seemed the soul of humility, but Septimus wasn’t fooled. His eyelids had slid sidelong in an attempt to study the young man sitting in the chair opposite Septimus. He was jealous, and Septimus loved it.
‘Tell me,’ he said, smiling across at Gilmour Cuthbert and resting his chin on one finger of his clenched right hand, ‘the cut of your clothes is really quite impeccable, Mr Cuthbert. Do share the address of your tailor with me.’
The young man, who had called to see him with an important item of legal information, swallowed his aversion to the man sitting opposite him and said, ‘Of course.’
‘He’s obviously very good with his tape measure – or he can assess your body with just a glance. Admirable. Quite admirable.’
Gilmour Cuthbert took a large gulp from his glass and flushed slightly.
Michael’s eyelids flickered, but only Septimus noticed it.
‘Now,’ said Septimus once Michael had left the room. ‘You say the information you have will completely exonerate Captain Thomas Strong in the matter of the murder of Reuben Trout?’
Gilmour nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘So tell me what you know.’
Luckily, Gilmour’s need to get the matter off his chest was stronger than his dislike of Septimus Monk. He’d watched Tom Strong after hearing his name mentioned by his father and had been intrigued at his father’s reaction. He also remembered someone else mentioning it a long time ago, someone who had turned out to be more than just a friend to a lonely boy. He’d never told his father of his meeting with Clarence Ward and what he’d found out about his father and himself. But he’d decided to tell Monk.
Taking a deep breath, he said, I’ve met the murderer. He unburdened to me everything that happened that night.’
Septimus raised his eyebrows. This was indeed an inspiring turn-up. Resting his elbows on the fine-tooled leather of his desk and lacing his fingers together in front of his face, he leaned closer.
‘So tell me what happened that night.’
A trifle flustered, Gilmour looked down at the floor and licked his dry lips as he put his thoughts into order.
‘Reuben Trout killed a woman named Sally Ward. She had a son named Clarence who was enrolled at the Merchant Seamen’s apprenticeship school on board a ship called the Miriam Strong. It caught fire and the captain was killed. There was a rumour that Reuben Trout was responsible for that too. However, when Clarence found out that Reuben Trout had likely killed his mother, he went in search of him, found him and killed him. Tom Strong saw it and told him to run otherwise his life would be ruined. So he did, but in him running, the blame seemed to fall on Captain Strong. But he didn’t do it. Clarence was the guilty one.’
Gilmour Cuthbert squirmed under the intense scrutiny of Septimus Monk and found it nigh-on impossible to look him straight in the eye.
‘And where is this Clarence Ward now?’ Septimus asked.
‘Australia. A place called Botany Bay, but he’s willing to give evidence. I know he will.’
Septimus slumped back in his chair. ‘So you confirm the rumour already relayed to us, but why would he put his neck in a noose to save another? And why should I believe you?’ Monk shot forward again, his eyes seeming to fill his face. ‘Have you, by any chance, concocted a story on behalf of the Strong family in order to subvert the course of justice and let a guilty man free? Are you trying to take me for a fool?’
Gilmour sat bolt upright. ‘No! Most certainly not!’
‘Then tell me why I should believe he exists and, if indeed he does, why I should accept the word of a convict exiled to the colonies?’
‘No! No! You misunderstand!’ Gilmour flushed like a girl.
Septimus eyed him sceptically. What would Walsingham have done in his place? Stretch him on the rack in order to get to the truth? Apply thumbscrews? Whip him until his back ran bloody? Septimus shivered with pleasure. Unfortunately, there was nothing to do but to listen to whatever excuse was about to be given.
‘He’s not a convict,’ Gilmour blurted. ‘He’s a parson. He was full of remorse following the murder and Captain Strong’s intervention, so he turned to God. That’s why he went to Australia. He thought it was where he deserved to be – out there with the convicts, preaching to the godless and sharing their privations in an effort to obtain forgiveness.’
Septimus frowned. Reformed characters who turned to religion worried him. He was suspicious that their reformation had more to do with currying favour with the lords of Lincoln’s Inn rather than the Lord of Heaven.
‘But how do you know that he was telling the truth?’
Septimus almost drooled when Gilmour Stoke sighed, tossed his tawny curls away from his face and closed his eyes.
‘He was my brother,’ Gilmour whispered as though the answer pained him. He sighed again. ‘My father knew Sally Ward – in the full biblical sense of the word. I was born before Clarence. My father married my mother and left her in the village in which she was born. After my mother died, I was sent away to be brought up by my father’s aunt. Later, I was enrolled in a boarding school because my father wanted me to be a gentleman. Apparently Sally came to the house with Clarence in her arms demanding money. I knew nothing of this at the time, only later on.’
Rubbing at his forehead with one long finger, Septimus settled back in his chair as he thought things through.
‘And how did you find this out?’ he asked solicitously.
‘My aunt was dying. I went to see her and she told me everything, such as that my father had not always been a gentleman, that in fact he had once lived “by his wits” as she’d put it. She told me about Sally coming to the door with Clarence and how my poor mother had found out that her husband earned his money off women like Sally.’ With a mortified expression, he looked away. ‘If you know what I mean.’
Septimus made no comment. Gilmour’s information about Stanley Cuthbert was a gold nugget he would ferret away for future use. He’d never liked the man. Learning that he’d once been little more than a pimp was not a big surprise, but to have his gut feeling confirmed, to have genuine information to build on… well, who knew when it might come in useful.
‘Armed with the information from my aunt, I went searching for Clarence and found him. Eventually we both confronted our father and demanded Clarence be granted the education I was receiving. It was some time later that he headed for Australia.’
Deciding the meeting was at an end, Septimus Monk rose from his chair and came round from behind his desk.
‘I’m very pleased you came to tell me this, Gilmour. Most enlightening. I’m sure the Strong family will be very grateful to you.’ Panic registered in his eyes as Gilmour sprang to his feet. ‘Please… you won’t tell my father that I told you, will you? He’d be furious.’
Septimus frowned. ‘What’s there to tell? Quite frankly, without bona fide evidence, your story amounts to nothing towards the innocence of Captain Strong. I need something more convincing than second or third-hand statements. I can hardly ask the authorities to drop the matter purely because someone told me of someone who was there and actually did the dirty deed – what?’
Gilmour almost jumped out of his skin and went quite pale. Aware that he’d raised his voice, Septimus apologized. ‘Please understand, dear sir, I either need a statement from you or a statement from him.’
‘That’s what I have,’ said Gilmour, reaching excitedly i
nto his coat pocket. He pulled out a piece of folded paper, the thicker sort used by solicitors for their never-ending folios – for which they were paid generously.
‘Clarence wrote it out a few months after the murder and before he left for Australia. In case of need, he said. And here it is.’
Septimus Monk felt the blood surge in his veins as his fingers touched those of the handsome son of Sydney Cuthbert. Pulling himself together, he quickly perused the curled handwriting, then nodded thoughtfully. ‘This will be very useful.’
‘Will it clear Captain Strong’s name?’
‘Assuredly.’
‘And this meeting will remain a secret? I wouldn’t want my father to hear of it.’
Septimus covered the young man’s hand with his own, his smile reminiscent of a giant cat about to eat its own young. ‘Of course not.’
* * *
‘Walsingham would have been proud of you,’ he said to himself that night after turning the matter over in his head and realizing that he could make a good deal more than his standard fee per folio if he played his cards right. And Septimus Monk was very good at playing cards.
The sleeping Michael lying beside him mumbled a drowsy response, though he didn’t appear to have really heard what was said.
Septimus smiled to himself. Information. The world turned on information. Walsingham had known that, and so did he. At sometime in the future, Sydney Cuthbert would rue the day his son had divulged a family secret to Septimus Monk.
‘Wonderful,’ Septimus murmured, blew out the candle and snuggled up to his latest companion.
Chapter Twenty Six
Sir Emmanuel Strong went to bed in the stone sarcophagus one morning and was not discovered missing until the afternoon of the next day. It wasn’t unusual for him to miss dinner and he sometimes stayed in bed until late morning. His personal valet, McDermid, had finally entered his bedroom and discovered his bed had not been slept in.
