To this partner in the firm of Ommany and Druce, matters had been set up to guarantee satisfaction, for Barclay had as a clerk and secretary a fellow called Cornelius Gherson, a man who had a less than honest past and could be bought; he was as keen to see his own pockets bulge as that of his master.
It was not, however, a wholly happy interview. Edward Druce had managed to deflect Barclay for some time as he listened to his litany of complaints regarding the recent battle, during which the captain kept glancing over the prize agent’s head to a painting of another fleet action in which he had been present, if, as a frigate commander, less closely involved. This was the Battle of the Saintes, an encounter in which his one-time patron, the late Lord Rodney, had trounced the Comte de Grasse.
‘And that was a proper fleet, not like that parcel we encountered off Ushant,’ Barclay declared, when he finally made a comparison and pointed at the huge canvas. ‘The flower of the Royal French Navy was what Rodney beat, not some suddenly elevated numbskull tainted by revolution!’
He’s had too much claret, Druce thought, but if his glass was empty, and it was, there was little choice but to top it up, this in the hope that his client would burble on about naval battles and stay off the subject of his missing wife. When Emily Barclay had disappeared, a thief taker called Hodgeson had been employed, through Druce, in order that she should be found and returned to the matrimonial home, forcibly if necessary.
There had been a worry, voiced by the thief taker, a very experienced and canny fellow, that Barclay could not be trusted; that he might, when his wife was located and he was told of her whereabouts, act outside the law and that was voiced before there was any mention of the involvement of another man, which was bound to heighten whatever feeling Barclay had. Though it had never been openly stated, there was the possibility of harm coming to the lady, of which Hodgeson wanted to be no part and neither did the man who had engaged him.
The other worry for Druce was the fellow Gherson, sat in the basement as of this very moment, going though the list of investments, as well as profits and expenses, even the odd small loss, so that he could reassure his master that the Ommany and Druce activities were sound.
God forbid Hodgeson should ever find him, for Edward Druce’s brother-in-law definitely wanted Gherson dead, indeed he had tried to dispose of him previously, with his relative by marriage unwittingly supplying the thugs, moonlighting members of the Impress Service, this to satisfy the way Gherson had dallied with the man’s wife.
Druce had also agreed to find Barclay’s clerk, then sent Hodgeson off on entirely the wrong scent with a description at total odds with Gherson’s very obvious appearance; the fellow was too profitable to the business to be put at any risk. He had described him as dark, swarthy and unprepossessing, instead of being what he was: near white of hair and with an absurdly handsome countenance. Such unwelcome ruminations were brought to a halt as Barclay’s voice rose to a pitch of irritation.
‘Medals to be struck, pensions granted, promotions to flag rank all around and what do I get? Nothing but spiteful lies.’
‘It is to be much regretted, Captain Barclay, for if I was not myself present, I cannot but believe you acted with noble endeavour. Were it in my power to alter matters I would put all my efforts to doing so.’
‘Just as I hope you have put in such efforts to find my wife! I had hoped, on my return to shore, there would be some information, indeed the place where she is skulking.’
His glass being drained again, Druce topped it up, thinking two unrelated thoughts: that it was a good thing Barclay did not have two hands and, though contentedly married himself, that matrimony could be a cesspit. In both the cases he was reluctantly dealing with, a great difference in age seemed to lie at the root of the trouble.
His brother-in-law had married a much younger bride and one whose attention had wandered with handsome Cornelius Gherson sharing the household. Barclay likewise had wed a woman half his age and it seemed as if it had resulted in the same sort of consequence.
‘I am happy to say, Captain Barclay,’ Druce replied, reaching into a desk drawer, ‘that information has come in this very day.’
That was a smooth lie; Druce had been in possession of Hodgeson’s report for weeks, now in two parts: one complete, the other a filleted one that would, it was hoped, avoid future difficulties landing on the prize agent’s desk, for Emily Barclay had not been at all hard to find. Leafing through it now he read the thief taker’s words: she had been staying in London at Nerot’s Hotel and, thanks to a servant easy to suborn with drink, so had a young naval officer who went by the name of John Pearce.
According to the man who had observed their behaviour, she had been sweet on this Pearce, indeed they departed on the same day, if in separate conveyances. Too long in the tooth to fall for that ploy – Pearce was a fine-looking cove by all accounts – Hodgeson had merely enquired of a source at the Admiralty, one of the doormen, fellows who would sell their mother for a silver coin. Did a John Pearce, lieutenant by rank, have a ship?
Indeed he had and it was berthed at Buckler’s Hard, down at the bottom of the New Forest, whither Hodgeson had gone, only to find HMS Larcher had set sail some days previously and, lo and behold, as the good folks of the shipyards watched it weigh, they could not fail to notice the presence of a very comely young lady on the deck who very much fitted the description Hodgeson had. No genius was required to put two and two together, so it was back to his Admiralty doorman for information as to where Larcher was headed.
‘Well, Mr Druce?’
‘Just refreshing my memory, Captain Barclay.’
Druce was lying again; in reality he was still wondering how much it would be wise to say, which report to read out? Was it prudent to tell this man that he was being cuckolded and that his wife was on the way to the Mediterranean with the guilty party, or should he just say where Emily Barclay had been sighted? As a naval officer Barclay would surely have no trouble in finding out about the ship on which she had sailed, but that would not tell him about the fellow Hodgeson assumed had snatched her away.
‘Have you had any communication with Mrs Barclay?’ he asked, prevaricating.
‘I had a letter on my return and one that changes nothing, despite her protestations that our union is ended. Once I have found her—’
‘Your wife may no longer, we think, be in the country.’
‘Damn it, man, where could she have gone?’
‘It occurred to my man that you would be better placed to find that out than he, given after she left Nerot’s Hotel she travelled a goodly distance, then set sail on a naval vessel.’
That nearly had Barclay’s eyes popping out of his head, the conclusion being obvious: if she was on a King’s ship a fellow officer must have facilitated that flight.
‘She sailed from a place called Buckler’s Hard, which is—’
‘I know where it is!’
‘Quite,’ Druce replied, taking refuge by dropping his eyes to the reports. ‘Aboard an armed cutter called HMS Larcher.’
Barclay shook his head, a clear indication that whoever commanded her was not someone he could recall, indeed he had probably never even heard of the vessel. Caution being one of the Druce watchwords, that was when he decided to suppress the name of Pearce.
‘My man questioned the locals as to where she was bound.’ Druce surreptitiously slipped out the full report and let it drop to the floor where it was hidden by the bulk of his desk; the one he had prepared and did not mention a naval lieutenant was handed over. ‘It was felt that you would be in a better position to find that out than anyone I employed.’
Barclay’s good hand came out and he took the single sheet of paper, which he stared at for some time before speaking.
‘Armed cutters tend to be inshore vessels, Mr Druce, tasked to catch contrabandiers and protect small merchant vessels on the coastal trade from privateers, and they rarely go in deep water. This leads me to suspect that if she has been tran
sported in one, and God would only know the whys and wherefores, then she has been taken to some port or fishing village along the south coast and dropped off, not out of the country as you suggest. That may mean, when I find which waters the Larcher is set to cover, sending out your man again.’
‘He is, of course, entirely at your disposal, Captain Barclay, should you need him.’
‘As for the fellow who has aided her to escape me, I will see him drummed out of the service, for I cannot believe he did it without knowing who he was dealing with.’ That brought forth a deep sigh. ‘As you will no doubt have gleaned from our previous discussion, no naval officer, however hard he tries, can go through his years of service without some people taking against him.’
A discreet knock allowed Druce to look away from a man he expected made enemies easily, that followed by the door being opened, to reveal one of the agency’s liveried servants. He announced that Captain Barclay’s man had completed his examination and was waiting outside.
Druce picked up the nearly empty claret bottle. ‘Do you wish to cast an eye over them here, Captain?’
‘No, I will examine them later. Right now I must get to the Admiralty and find out the name of the scoundrel who commands this HMS Larcher.’
‘And then?’
‘I must get back to my ship, since my leave of absence is not unlimited. I will write to you with what I find out and you can set your hound on her trail again.’
Druce was thinking that having settled one problem, Barclay’s departure would now deal with another: he was anxious to get Gherson out of his offices and away; as long as he was in the building, who knew what could happen and his brother-in-law did sometimes just drop in. One thing Edward Druce did know, he was damned if he would knowingly be a party to murder.
CHAPTER TEN
Pearce was obliged to go aboard HMS Leander in search of Henry Digby and was thus presented, close up, with the kind of activities that took place on a man-o’-war when the captain was lax about allowing women aboard. It was not just noisy whores and paid-for fornication: there were lute players, magic tricksters and jugglers skilful enough to ply their skill under low deck beams, as well as barking traders who were so established that several mess tables were set up as stalls selling everything from trinkets to monkeys, the whole ensemble setting up a cacophony of noise exaggerated by the confines of the available space.
The marines on duty, he found, seemed tasked only to make secure the parts of the ship where no stranger was allowed to go – the various cabins, naturally, the powder, bread and private storerooms. But that still left plenty of places where they could extract some coin from a man that sought privacy for his carnal activities; the marines off duty were, Pearce assumed, as likely to be found indulging themselves in pleasure as the ship’s crew. Judging by the raucous singing, there was drink available, too, and in quantity, which no doubt led to endless problems with discipline.
Having found his man he was immediately aware of the reserve with which he was greeted and that was off-putting. Here was a fellow with whom he had sailed into dangerous waters, indeed with whom he had faced a risk to his very life; Digby had also taken the time and trouble, and with patience, to fill many a gap in his subordinate’s nautical knowledge, a kindness over and above his responsibilities.
Pearce thought Henry Digby a thoroughly decent fellow, if blinkered in an Anglo-Saxon sort of way; strong in his Anglican faith, an upholder of the Thirty-Nine Articles of the Act of Settlement and proudly conscientious in his morals; no doubt the latter, the case of he and Emily Barclay, was the cause of his cold manner. So instead of engaging him in the subject on which he had come, Pearce entered into an opinion of the entertainments through which he had just progressed.
‘Seems like the Feast of Saturnalia on the main deck.’
‘The premier is a man fond of the cat,’ Digby lamented, his detachment lessened by a subject that probably affected the very same tenets by which he was no doubt judging his visitor. ‘He is of the opinion that the crew must be allowed their pleasure, then if they step over the mark, which as you know any tar is bound to do in drink, he has them up at the grating and I cannot but believe it is for his pleasure.’
Digby dropped his head slightly so that Pearce could not see his eyes, which gave the impression that he was ashamed of what he was saying.
‘We are also burdened with a commander who does not interfere, a fellow of stunning indolence, more interested in butterflies than his duties. He’s ashore right now with his nets and his servant, running around the Tuscan hills seeking to augment his collection. This ship, in his absence, is run entirely by Lieutenant Taberly.’
‘I know what he is like,’ Pearce replied, which got him a look of enquiry. ‘Don’t you recall, my Pelicans served aboard Leander before we sailed for Biscay? They told me about Taberly.’
‘Well, today he too is ashore, so I can invite you into the wardroom without the risk of upsetting him. It’s one of our premier’s strictures, no one to be a guest in his domain lacking his personal permission.’
‘Actually, I wish to speak to you on a private matter, so if the wardroom is occupied …’
Digby frowned, giving his visitor the clear impression that he knew what was about to be discussed, but he did not demur. ‘If you want, we can talk in my cabin, though one of us will have to sit on the twenty-four pounder that has a greater claim to the space than I.’
To get to Digby’s cabin meant traversing the wardroom and that required introductions, every face examined by Pearce as his name was mentioned to see if it registered. One or two of the occupants did pull on their mouths – having been at home when Pearce got his elevation they would have been part of the general buzz of disapproval at his promotion – but no one said anything and courtesies complete they went into the cramped space of Digby’s home, a somewhat noxious one behind a canvas screen, given it was too close to the quarter gallery that acted as the wardroom latrine.
‘I think I best say at the outset, John, that if you have come to seek my approval I cannot grant it.’
‘Approval for what?’
That caused Digby to hesitate for a split second, his discomfort obvious. ‘I met Mrs Barclay on the quayside yesterday.’
‘I am aware of that.’
‘And much as I have regard for her as a person—’
Pearce interrupted. ‘Does that regard include me?’
‘I have no idea of how you came to be conjoined, John, so I cannot speculate on who is to blame.’
‘Blame?’
‘You can hardly see the situation as regular.’
‘How I see the situation, Henry, is my affair and that of the lady with whom I am, as you put it, conjoined. While your disapproval of it does not surprise me, it would be best that you know such an attitude will have no bearings on what I will do in the future. So it is thus best a subject that we do not discuss.’
‘If we are not to discuss that I am at a loss to know why you have come a’visiting?’
Pearce produced a wry smile. ‘I am not allowed to call upon an old friend?’
Was it the word ‘friend’ that made Digby’s expression change? Pearce had no idea and was sorry to think it might be, for they had become, if not as close as he and his Pelicans, familiar enough for such an appellation to seem appropriate. As if to underline that such intimacy was in doubt, Digby’s hesitant reply lacked any reassurance.
‘Of course.’
‘As it so happens I have come to see you on another matter entirely. I have been challenged to a duel and I lack anyone to second for me.’ Digby’s head moved and his lips too, but no words emerged. ‘I have come to ask you to be that person.’
‘It is against the law.’
‘That will not stop it taking place,’ Pearce insisted, which received a gloomy nod; there was a spot outside every town in England, Hampstead Heath being the London favourite, where duels took place on a daily basis. ‘Perhaps it would be best if I told you the
circumstances.’
Which he did, aware as he spoke that what he was saying did not put him in a very good light. Digby, he was sure, was filtering the words through the prism of his own standards and that meant an intuition that no such thing could ever occur with him; for a man, especially a naval officer, to so lose control as to strike another officer, regardless of the nature of his service, was close to an abomination. There was also the point that he had been in Gibraltar when Lipton was shot and had been kept in ignorance of what was taking place.
‘I plead that I was defending another.’
‘Who does not, to my way of thinking, sound worthy of your interference.’
‘I will not defend Captain McGann, Henry, but I will say that if you knew him you might understand.’
In saying that Pearce was wondering if that was true: the short and drunken captain had practically had his nose buried in the ample bosom of Major Lipton’s wife and had ignored all attempts that he should desist. Perhaps, in similar circumstances, Pearce would have belted him too.
‘Anyway, there you have it, so can I ask you to act for me?’
‘If I do, John, I must tell you I do so unwillingly.’
‘If I had a choice I would accept that, but I do not, so I am obliged to press you.’
‘There is another caveat. I cannot do so without I have permission from Mr Taberly.’
‘And will that be forthcoming?’
‘I cannot say, he’s such a contrary fellow that he could go either way.’
‘Can I give you the details, in case his reaction is positive? The name of Lipton’s second and where he is to be found.’
Digby’s head was on his chest, Pearce thinking he was seeking another reason to refuse, but he lifted it eventually and looked his visitor right in the eye, without much in the way of affection.
‘There are writing materials in the wardroom.’
‘No need,’ Pearce replied, pulling a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘I took the liberty of noting them down before I set off.’
A Divided Command Page 11
