Fletcher's Glorious 1st of June

by John Drake

  But the test was never made. Even as Lady Sarah reached the ground floor and found her two servants gawping at her, there came a heavy knock at the front door. The three of them jumped. Lady Sarah received no visitors and it was possible that this could mean that she was discovered and an officer of police was outside with a warrant for her arrest. But the servants knew their work, and the old, mad, gibbering Admiral was upstairs in his bed, kept alive for just such moments as this, when he could be displayed as the master of the house and its sole occupant besides “his” servants.

  But it was not Sheriff’s Officers or the Parish Constable who were at the door. It was Sam Slym, accompanied by two grubby men in sailors’ clothes. As Slym led them into the withdrawing room, they snatched off their round, tarred hats and bent half double with respect, knuckling their brows to the elegant lady before them. They looked uncomfortable, but had an air of crafty greed about them.

  “Good day to you, ma’am!” said Slym, bowing to Lady Sarah. She could see he was pleased with himself. A man like Sam Slym could never be described as “bursting with excitement”, he was far too cold a fish for that, but he was somewhat along the path that, in lesser men, led to this condition.

  “Good day to you, sir!” she snapped, still flushed with anger. Slym raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. He deduced that Miss Booth was still uncooperative.

  “Now then,” said Slym, prodding his companions with his stick, “this is the lady I told you about. Your every hope of the reward lies in her gift. So you stand there till you’re told to move, you step up when you’re told, you tell your tale when you’re told, and you shut yer gobs afterwards, right?”

  “Aye-aye, sir!” said the two in unison, and Lady Sarah smiled, despite herself, at the quaint way they saluted him: raising the right hand to the brow and stamping simultaneously with the right foot. She’d seen players do that on the stage when imitating sailors, and was amused to see that the pretence, for once, reflected reality.

  “Ma’am,” said Slym, sweeping his coat-tails forward and settling into a chair, ‘the advertisements that I placed in the newspapers have borne fruit.”

  She glanced at the two seamen, who were listening to every word and shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. She looked at Slym questioningly.

  “No,” he said, “never mind them, ma’am, there’s no men in all the world that knows better than these two what a villain is Mr Jacob Fletcher!” He smiled, for he was deliberately building the tension before making his disclosure, and that was something very unusual for him. Her heart suddenly beat faster as she guessed that Slym had found out something of great importance.

  “As you know, ma’am,” he continued, “we placed them advertisements in the hope of drawing forward Mr Fletcher himself, but we added the promise of a reward for any who could tell us his true whereabouts.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Do come to the point, sir!”

  “I’m coming to it, ma’am,” he said, and positively chuckled. “You there!” he said, pointing to the nearer of the two seamen. “Step up and give your story!”

  “Aye-aye, sir!” says the first little man and took a step forward. He had a sickly look about him and coughed continuously. He cleared his throat, licked his lips and ran a hand over his head, nervously smoothing the tight-drawn hair which was pulled into a long pigtail at the base of his neck.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, mum, but I dunno where to begin ...”

  “Bah!” said Slym. “Get on with it! Give it just as you did to me in the Blue Boar this morning.”

  “Aye-aye, sir!” said he, and saluted again. “Solomon Oakes, lately able seaman in His Majesty’s Fleet, at your service, ma’am!” he jerked a thumb at his companion, “and this here’s my messmate Charlie Pegg, foretopman before he ruptured his-self — begging yer pardon, ma’am — he done hisself so bad this time that the surgeon couldn’t truss him up fit for to serve. And so he and I was discharged the service, what with his rupture and my consumptive fever, which is cruel hard, ma’am, on account of our …”

  “Never mind that,” said Slym, interrupting, “get to the Bullfrog, tell the lady what you saw.”

  “Aye-aye, sir! Well … him and me, Charlie, we was took this Febr’y, ma’am, during the hot press when the war started. And so we was under hatches in the old Bullfrog bound for Portsmouth. And every morning they had us up on deck for exercise, a few at a time, so’s we couldn’t take the ship …”

  By now, Lady Sarah was on the edge of her chair. She was burning with anticipation. She had a very good idea indeed of what was coming, and a thrilling hope was rising within her like an ascending skylark.

  “… and so there we was, ma’am, me and Charlie and another man by the name of Polperro, also a seaman, we was

  standin’ on the fo’c’sle one morning, when we see the old Bosun, Mr Dixon, we see him go forward to the heads.”

  “That’s the bows, ma’am,” said Slym, seeing her puzzlement, “in the very front of the ship, where there is a little platform under the bowsprit. It is where the men ease the calls of nature, ma’am.”

  “Aye,” said Oakes grateful for not having to make this explanation himself. “Well, ma’am, we see the old Bosun go forrard, and we see that swab Fletcher …”

  “FLETCHER!” she cried. “JACOB FLETCHER?” One hand, clenched into knuckles, was at her mouth while the other drove its sharp-nailed fingers deep into the upholstery of her couch.

  “Aye-aye, ma’am,” said Oakes and paused, unsure of her reactions.

  “GET ON WITH IT!” she cried.

  “Well … well ...” said Oakes, “that Fletcher, why he hit the old Bosun on the head and he knocked him down and kicked him into the sea. Murdered him, he did.” He turned to his mate, “Ain’t that right, Charlie?”

  “Aye!” said Pegg. “And no matter what the Bosun done, he didn’t oughter have done that to him.”

  “Ahhhhhh!” said Lady Sarah, and sank back into her cushions, full of the same sensations as accompany the conclusion of a particularly luscious sexual encounter. “And you’re sure of this?” she said. “The man was Jacob Fletcher?”

  “Aye-aye, ma’am,” said Oakes, “the same Fletcher what got made heir to a fortune.”

  “And you will testify to this?” said Lady Sarah. “In court?”

  Oakes and Pegg looked sideways at Slym and said nothing.

  “These excellent fellows are now penniless, ma’am,” said Slym, “and I took it upon myself to promise them all reasonable expenses from now until Mr Fletcher’s case might come to trial.”

  “Of course,” she smiled. “You see to it, Mr Slym, but I would ask that each of these good fellows should receive five guineas in gold, at once, on account.”

  Oakes and Pegg grinned like monkeys.

  “Testify before any court in the land, we would!” said Oakes.

  “An’ it’s no more’n the truth, ma’am,” said Pegg. “It’s him what done it. That Jacob Fletcher.”

  “Thank you, Oakes! Thank you, Pegg!” said Slym. “Be so good as to leave us now. If you go to the kitchen, I’m sure Mrs Collins will find you something to keep body and soul together.”

  The two shabby broken seamen saluted again and shuffled out, happy as could be. They wouldn’t have to starve on the shore, after all. And they could get blinding drunk on five guineas each.

  As the door closed behind them, Lady Sarah was up from her couch and leapt upon Sam Slym where he sat primly upright in his chair. She dropped into his lap with skirts round her waist and her long legs coiled around the back of his chair. She threw her arms round his neck and kissed him as if he were the last man in the world. Her tongue was working halfway down his throat and he could hardly breathe. But he didn’t complain.

  “My darling Sam!” she said at last. “Where did you find them?”

  “They found me,” he said. “They came to the Blue Boar, just like the advertisements said. And the landlord sent for me. They were nervous at first, �
�cos they don’t know where he is, which is what the advertisement asked, but they had something better, didn’t they?”

  “If they saw the Brat kill this Bosun, then why have they kept silent so long?” she said.

  “‘Cos seamen don’t ‘peach on one another,” he said, “and the third man, who witnessed the murder, this Polperro fellow, persuaded Oakes and Pegg that the Bosun deserved it. It seems the Bosun was a little free with his chastisement of the crew, and they all hated him.”

  “Do you know what this means, my love?” said Lady Sarah. “Yes,” said he, “you’ve got the last thing you need.”

  “Yes! Yes! Yes!” she said and reached down to unbuckle Slym’s breeches.

  “Will you throw yourself on the mercy of the law now, as you said?” he asked.

  “Yes!” she said, pulling at his shirt and waistcoat to throw them open so she could feel his naked flesh.

  “But the risk?” he said. “How can you be sure you’ll win?”

  Briefly she stopped burrowing her hands inside his clothes.

  “Sam,” she said, “I will accept nothing less than my late husband’s house, his title, and all his money. I will not live in the shadows and in fear of arrest. And there is no other route to those things than through the courts. I have told you how I will crush the charges laid against me, and I have only delayed going forward while we either found and killed the Brat or found ...” and she smiled and busied herself again, “until we found what you found today, my love … Ouch!” she gasped. “Have a care with that buckle … Help me out of these!” she said, trying to peel off a pair of skin-tight, flesh-coloured pantalettes, while remaining in the saddle.

  “What in God’s name are those?” said Slym, holding the filmy leggings in his broad, hairy hand.

  “The latest from Paris, my love.” she said. “Are they not the most elegant things? They are of knitted silk.” She sighed and settled her naked behind into his lap.

  “Paris?” he gasped. “But there’s a bloody war with the French, isn’t there?”

  He got no answer, for she’d wriggled herself on to his spike and was bouncing her hips to and fro with her head thrown back and her eyes closed. Slym himself lost interest in the conversation at that point.

  *

  However, Lady Sarah did not present herself into a magistrate’s charge immediately. There were many things still to do, of a practical and minor nature, as well as one very important and major matter. So several days of busy activity followed until Sam Slym hired a post-chaise to take them both northwards to the next stage of Lady Sarah’s campaign. For her son Victor had been left dangerously injured by his disastrous attempt on the life of the Taylor family, and it was vital that something should be done about this to make sure that Victor’s own position was secured.

  *

  Public servant though he was, Mr Magistrate Gardiner flatly refused to have Victor Coignwood under his roof during a prolonged convalescence. So shortly after Victor underwent surgery, he was removed upon his front street door to the Charity Hospital next to the Parish Workhouse. As a concession to his rank, a private room was found him, and Mr Wallace the surgeon visited him daily.

  There, he was guarded, day and night in watches, by the Plowright brothers: Adam, the Parish Constable proper, by Noah, the Parish Constable (acting), and by their younger brother Abram. Adam had been entrusted with his share of the duty only after solemnly swearing on the Bible to Mr Gardiner that he would not strangle Victor if left alone with him.

  *

  And so, late in the evening of 6th October 1793, when Victor received two unexpected visitors, it was Adam himself, still awkward on his fine, new wooden leg, that received them.

  Victor’s room was normally the Hospital Clerk’s office and was located just off the entrance lobby on the ground floor. It was spacious, easy of access, and had the valuable asset of barred windows. These normally served to keep the public out, and away from the clerk’s strong-box, but now they helped to keep Mr Coignwood in. Not that he was in any fit state to escape.

  At night, when the hospital doors were locked, the porter was allowed a fire in the lobby, which was high and draughty and stone-flagged. Normally he went his rounds through the night and returned from time to time to warm himself, and to take a drop of the bottle he kept in his own little cubicle. But he’d got used now to keeping company with whichever Plowright brother was on duty and they’d sit and chat and smoke a pipe or two beside the fire. This was a congenial practice which all enjoyed and agreed was superior to normal duties.

  But that night, the porter and Adam Plowright were disturbed by the sharp clatter of a stick battered against the door. Grumbling and muttering, the porter drew the heavy bolts and pulled open one half of the big double doors.

  A man and woman entered, clearly gentry, and Adam Plow-right hauled himself up from his chair and doffed his hat in respect. He peered at the couple, who were somewhat out of the light from the fire or the porter’s lantern. The man was a gentleman from the crown of his smart round hat with its up-curling brim, to the multiple capes of his travelling coat, to the toes of his gleaming boots. The lady was all smothered in a cloak, and so could not be seen.

  “Good evening!” said the man, a Londoner by his voice. “My name is Slym, and I have urgent business with Mr Victor Coignwood. I am told he is here.”

  “Arr ...” said the porter, unsure of what to do. “That’d be Mr Plowright’s affair: our Constable. That’s he by the fire.”

  At the mention of Plowright’s name, the lady caught the gentleman’s arm and whispered urgently in his ear. They exchanged a few private words, and finally Plowright heard the gentleman say: “If you are sure you can do it … only if you are sure.”

  “Yes,” said the lady distinctly and threw back her hood. Plow-right staggered on his wooden pin. Even in the half-light he knew her. No man who once set eyes on her ever forgot that face.

  “‘Tis her!” he gasped. “Lady Sarah Coignwood,” but she was already gliding towards him and working her craft upon him. The soft folds of the hood about her neck and the firelight on her face played a part, but Slym had to shake his head in amazement to see the change come over the stolid, middle-aged, thick-set man that received the full blast of her charm. The poor devil hadn’t a chance. He went from hatred to worship in about ten seconds.

  “My dear Mr Plowright,” she said, “you are a much-wronged man and the hurt you suffered is constantly in my prayers. I am come to appeal to your charity as a God-fearing Englishman …”

  “Oh! Arrr!” said Plowright, and shuffled to and fro in bewilderment.

  “I am come to Lonborough to throw myself upon the mercy of the Law,” she said, “I who am as wronged and as wounded in this affair as is your brave self, Mr Plowright — perhaps even more so!”

  “Arrr?” said Plowright.

  “Indeed,” said she. “Soon you shall hear the full story, my dear sir, but first I beg a favour of you in the name of the dear mother that bore you, and whose memory I know you cherish. The dear mother whose tears bathed you when you suffered hurt, and kissed your wounds away.”

  Plowright gulped with emotion.

  “My … my … my old ma?” said he, his voice quavering and tears welling in his eyes. The porter sniffed loudly and even Sam Slym thought back to his childhood.

  “Yes,” she said, “I ask to spend a last moment with my son Victor, before I am taken to prison. I ask what any mother would.”

  Plowright produced a large, multicoloured handkerchief and blew his nose loudly.

  “God bless yer sweet soul, ma’am!” said he, profoundly moved. “You shall see him this instant, and devil take whomsoever stands in yer way!”

  With great respect, he ushered Lady Sarah to a door which he instantly unlocked and threw open. Inside, a single candle was burning on a little table beside a camp bed. Victor Coign-wood, awakened by the noise outside, sat up in his nightshirt, hollow-cheeked, yellow-faced, with huge shadows beneath his
eyes, and his skull swathed in bloody bandages.

  “My boy!” she breathed. “Oh, my son!” She flew to him, arms outstretched, fell on her knees beside the bed and embraced him.

  Plowright and the porter sobbed with emotion and stood back to respect the privacy of the moment. They saw the fond embrace, they saw the gentle lady smooth her child’s brow. They saw everything but heard nothing. She spoke too softly for that.

  “My boy!” she said.

  “Mother!” said he. “I have failed.”

  “No, dear, you have done all that I wished.”

  “But you sent me to kill the Taylors.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “And I was caught! Look what they did to me!”

  “Never fear, my love! Listen to me now.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Do you remember my list?”

  Secretly, so nobody else could see, she unfolded a scrap of paper. It was a copy of the list she’d made in August:

  Fletcher

  Mr Forster the magistrate

  Mr Pendennis the Polmouth merchant

  Mr Taylor the bookseller (and wife)

  Mr Forster’s Constable

  The Constable’s two brothers.

  *

  “And now,” she said, “Fletcher is in my power, Forster was good enough to kill himself, Pendennis will say what I tell him, Taylor does not matter, and the Constable is a fool. His brothers will be the same.” Victor was puzzled.

  “But Taylor,” he said, “he saw me kill Lucey the solicitor.”

  “It does not matter, my love,” she insisted, and so absolute was Victor’s faith in his mother that the dreadful fear and guilt (especially guilt) that had been his constant companions these last few weeks began to recede. Victor’s mind had never been one of the healthiest, and he’d wandered dangerously close to the abyss of insanity.

  “So what shall you do, dearest?” he said, pathetic in his relief and eagerness. “How shall you deal with the Taylors?”