A Close Run Thing

by David Donachie

  ‘One must wonder what they thought to find us gone.’

  Oliphant lowered the flagon and waved it under Pearce’s nose. ‘Perhaps it would be good riddance.’

  ‘Will you ever afford these people some gratitude? They are risking their lives for us.’

  ‘No. They are risking their lives for a cause to which we are no more than a means to an end. Shielding us from capture is to ensure their own survival as much as ours. It is sentimental to think otherwise.’

  ‘I bow to your superior knowledge in the article of deceit.’

  ‘Will you bow to the point that, with the gaps in these walls and in full darkness, anyone who might be looking for us will know this hut is occupied?’

  That meant killing the light, while the presence of the single narrow cot established that one of them was in for an uncomfortable night.

  ‘A toss of the coin would seem to be the answer,’ Oliphant suggested.

  ‘Not one of yours,’ Pearce barked, reaching for the small purse. ‘And I will mark the passage of the moon, so that we may both have a share.’

  Pearce had declined forcibly the suggestion that, having lost the toss, his companion in misfortune should have both the cot and boat cloak. Once more wrapped in said cloak and perched on the barrel, he soon became prey to another set of gloomy reflections, this mixed with fitful dozing in a near-silent setting, there being no more than a faint hint of wind whispering through the less-than-sturdy structure.

  How different this was from being at sea, where it was never quiet given a light breeze hissing through the rigging, even less the screaming of a strong gale. Cordage was never soundless as it stretched and contracted regardless of wind, and the ship’s timbers would continually creak. If a change of course was called for, and it often was at night, the soft noise of bare, running feet would register enough to open an eye. On a taut-run ship, with trained hands, what followed would be muted: with a yet-to-be-worked-up crew, it would be all hell let loose in the amount of shouting and cursing.

  Dozing, Pearce picked the odd sound, though nothing like those to which he was accustomed. Yet something brought him near to full consciousness and the realisation he needed to relieve himself. With the taste of cider still on his tongue, he pulled back the tarpaulin flap and stepped out, falling headlong and emitting a loud curse, which woke Oliphant.

  ‘It cannot be time to change places,’ came a groan from the cot.

  No immediate reply followed. Pearce was on his knees, examining by moonlight what had caused him to trip. The realisation of their shape raised first his curiosity, until the nature of when and how they had been delivered, surreptitiously in the early morning hours, brought on a depressing thought.

  ‘Might I suggest you rise and come outside, Oliphant?’

  ‘In God’s name why?’

  ‘I think we’ve been delivered of a message.’

  Oliphant staggered out to see Pearce, kneeling by two objects, easy to identify by their shape. The two sets of panniers lay squat upon the sandy ground. That they should be returned was not in itself a cause for alarm; that they had been so furtively left for them to find was very much so. Opened, one revealed enough food to last them several days. The other had the uniforms in which they’d come to Gravelines.

  It took Oliphant no time at all to voice the conclusion. ‘We’re being told we must contrive to find our own way to cross the Channel.’

  ‘I’ll call up a hot-air balloon,’ Pearce suggested, his tone arch. ‘I’m sure the Montgolfier brothers will spare us one.’

  ‘We could still seek out a smuggler.’

  ‘By traipsing up and down the canal and asking?’ Pearce growled, thumping one of the panniers in frustration. ‘You must know that’s too dangerous, doubly so without any means to produce the kind of payment it would require just to get aboard. And don’t mention Dundas and a promise of future reward.’

  ‘We could tell them of our connections and our reasons for being stuck in Flanders.’

  ‘If men who follow that trade thought there was a price on our heads and, who knows, there might be, they’d just as likely turn us in. I have experience of these people, you do not. They are not to be trusted.’

  Expecting a string of questions from Oliphant about said experience and at least some vehement protest, Pearce was surprised at how calmly he reacted, though he didn’t speak for what seemed like an age.

  ‘Then we must go via Calais. There’s a regular neutral cartel sailing between there and Dover. Getting aboard is not easy, quite the opposite, but it can be done and, once on the ship, we should be safe.’

  ‘You seem very sure.’

  ‘Why would I not be, when I have used the route to get out of France before?’

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘Mrs Barclay, there’s a fellow at the door who says he has come with letters from your father.’

  The message from the house steward caused a frisson of alarm: for Emily’s father to send a servant, rather than using a postal service, boded ill. It quickly put an end to the chucking of baby Adam under the chin, which was a pity. The child was much given to smiling and gurgling when tickled.

  ‘Thank you, Cotton.’ A final peck on a full cheek was accompanied by, ‘Please call the nursemaid to sit with my son while I attend to it.’

  Emily, still full of concern, made her way down the wide staircase to the front door, where stood another servant of Heinrich Lutyens, a livered footman, holding the handle of the closed door. At a nod, it was pulled open to reveal a fellow of middle years, immediately identified.

  ‘Tom Whetton, is it you?’

  The cap that had been on the man’s head was swiftly whipped off, revealing greying hair, while a hand was held up containing said letters, one in particular pushed forward.

  ‘Your papa begged me bring this by hand, as he would not trust it to strangers.’

  ‘It does not speak of distress, I hope?’

  That engendered a tooth-missing smile as Tom got the drift. He too lived in a world where death and disease could strike suddenly, even to the heartiest soul. The cheerful reply came in his warm Somerset drawl.

  ‘How would I know, ma’am, not being lettered, but all were hale when I set out, may God preserve them whole.’

  ‘Then I will not have you stood on the doorstep.’

  Those words and a nod saw Tom Whetton step inside, not without a swift skyward look from the footman, his feelings plain that someone of Tom’s standing should not be allowed through the main doorway instead of the basement. The sudden yell, loud and speaking of serious discomfort, startled Tom and had him look with alarm at the closed hallway door, from behind which it had emanated.

  ‘Pay that no heed. It is merely Mr Lutyens treating a patient.’

  The look that got, one which made Emily smile, was a silent plea to never be prey to such medical ministrations. Heinrich, in whose house she was staying, had become a very fashionable physician in the last two years, with a string of wealthy clients paying goodly sums to suffer his attentions. She knew, of old, he was not a gentle practitioner. That had been so when he’d been the surgeon aboard HMS Brilliant. So, regardless of the depth of a purse, alleviation, if it came at all, was generally accompanied by a degree of distress.

  ‘You must be sharp set, Tom, from your travels. Can we provide you with a bite to eat and something to drink?’

  ‘That’d be most kind, Mrs Barclay.’

  The footman was instructed to ask of the cook that both be provided, to be fetched to the drawing room. It was an order obeyed, but it came with a significant pause to register further disapproval: the drawing room indeed! Not for the first time, and especially with Tom Whetton standing cap in hand close by, Emily registered the gap which existed between servants such as him, from a rural setting and almost part of the family, set against the sort employed in London, whom she was sure looked down on their paymasters.

  Once they were alone, Tom handed over another tied packet, which bore her
address, as well as the superscription of her late husband’s prize agents, Ommaney and Druce. But he added in a serious manner, ‘The first message, ma’am, the one that so worried your papa. He was keen it should be read right off.’

  Emily broke the wax on the folded letter, indicating that Tom should be seated, which saw him perch uneasily on the edge of a satin-covered chair. Opening it revealed an enclosure, a rather grubby slip of cheap paper, which looked as if it had been much handled. She recognised her father’s sloping writing in the main missive and read the words, which said no more than that he had received the enclosure by hand. It being unsealed, he had taken the liberty of reading it. The contents had so shocked him he felt it necessary to send Tom Whetton to London as a safe bearer of the insinuations, which he would not trust to a public service.

  Emily was amused by his caution, not unusual in a parent who was given to being easily discomfited, for John Raynesford lived a very ordered life. Anything untoward took on dramatic overtones they rarely warranted, and this was probably an instance. Unfolding the enclosure and reading it soon wiped both the smile from her face and the sentiment from her mind.

  Aware Tom was watching her closely, she composed her features to smile at him and enquire after everyone at home in Frome. This was continued over tea and cake as she had a look at the other letters relating to her business affairs. The old Raynesford family retainer seemed much flattered to be drinking a valuable brew he might never before have tasted. At home the tea caddy was locked and her father had the key.

  ‘You must be weary, Tom, and I would not hear of you seeking a bed other than in the attics. I’m sure Mr Lutyens will oblige.’

  ‘Oblige what?’

  The question was posed from a door, which had opened noiselessly, to reveal the owner of the house, which had Tom, who knew quality when he saw it, leap to his feet. He also, no doubt, took in the small stature and features, which had about them a vagueness, the expression on his face one of curiosity and somewhat fish-like in enquiry. Emily provided a quick explanation and the request for a bed was rapidly acceded to, on the grounds that she may wish to send a letter back to her father.

  ‘I’ll leave you, Emily, to ensure Cook knows to lay another place for the servant’s dinner.’

  A bell was rung, the same footman appeared and Tom was taken away to be accommodated. As soon as the door was closed behind them, Emily, her look serious, passed both her father’s letter and the enclosure that had so shocked her to Lutyens.

  ‘Gherson, for all love!’ he exclaimed, on reading the superscription on the grubby note.

  ‘Indeed.’

  Lutyens read on, his brow furrowed. ‘Do you give credence to what he is seeking to tell you?’

  ‘It has never been my inclination to trust him.’

  ‘Wise, Emily, very wise.’

  If Cornelius Gherson had figured little in Heinrich Lutyens life, he had been a bane in Emily Barclay’s. Pressed into HMS Brilliant on the same night as John Pearce, though not from the Pelican Tavern, he had proved to be the most mendacious creature imaginable, utterly untrustworthy. He was also excessively vain, sure that she, when he made his interest in her plain, would not be able to resist either his comely looks or his oleaginous charms.

  That had earned him a rude rejection, but it had failed to stymie his attentions, so it had to be repeated on more than one occasion until he finally seemed to accept rejection, something not taken well. He had wormed his way into her late husband’s regard and ended up as his clerk. This had Emily decide, since Ralph Barclay had proved to be a marital despot and had turned out to be a less than suitable husband, they were made for each other.

  ‘If you recall, Heinrich, with the duties he carried out for Captain Barclay, he was certainly in a position to act as he claims and it suits his dubious character.’

  ‘Which is a long way from accepting that a respectable firm of prize agents, well known in the naval community, conspired with him to dun your husband out of the full dues on his investments.’

  ‘Do you think I should go and see him, as he requests?’

  That brought forth a thin smile. ‘I have long ago come to accept, Emily, and this applies just as much to John Pearce as you, that any advice I proffer is usually ignored.’

  ‘That’s unfair.’

  ‘Which leads me to suspect you are going to Newgate.’

  ‘Do you think he could be, as he claims, innocent?’

  ‘Hard to tell, my dear. John, when he spoke of it to me, was incredulous and he knows him better than I. But my opinion? I do not like him and would never trust him, but I too cannot see him as a rapist and murderer who would, after gratifying his lust, mutilate a woman’s body.’

  There was no conclusion one way or the other from Emily, more a look of confusion, as Heinrich Lutyens turned to another subject, one as a physician he felt qualified to pronounce upon. It was a subject he had challenged her with since she first became his guest.

  ‘Are you still wedded to the folly of feeding your own child? It wearies you and deprives you of much needed sleep. I tell you once more, you’d have no trouble engaging a wet nurse and I will set in motion moves to find one on your word.’

  ‘Why would I forgo it, Heinrich, when it makes us both so content?’

  ‘I’m not sure contentment in an infant is good for his future well-being.’

  Thinking that for all his erudition and ability in the medical line he knew nothing about children, Emily replied, ‘I’m hoping by doing so he grows up to be like his father.’

  That got a cackling, good-humoured laugh. ‘Then God have mercy on his poor little soul.’

  Adam’s father, along with Oliphant, was trudging through soft, dry sand at the head of the beach, staying as close to the dunes as possible, each carrying one of the panniers, Oliphant with a fishing rod over his shoulder. It had been his contention that alone conferred an appearance of innocence; what could be seen as wrong on a beach, about an angler and his companion looking for a good spot to cast their line?

  John Pearce was once more being gently upbraided for not seeing the world as it really was, this as both men kept a weather eye for anything that could spell danger. So far, nothing had appeared to pose a threat. They were on a beach that ran all the way from Gravelines to Calais and were not the only people about. Out on the wet sands a whole host of human clusters were digging for cockles and worms, seeking their tradeable bait and molluscs before the tide came in.

  Beyond them, out to sea, but not far offshore, sat dozens of small fishing boats, while further out they could see billowing sails, as coastal traders plied a course as close as they could to land, one that would allow them to run for shelter if an enemy vessel appeared on the horizon.

  ‘You feel betrayed, Pearce, but look at the matter from the point of view of those who saw a need to abandon us.’

  ‘I am angered by the method more than the act.’

  That got a soft chuckle. ‘Hardly true. If you are uncomfortable at all, it is with your own erroneous assumptions, your strong belief in their honest intentions. But I say again, they have concerns that make their actions, to my mind, perfectly rational.’

  ‘No doubt you will now explain to me why.’

  ‘I will also clarify what made me see it as a possibility from the very outset, even before the noise of that idiot clattering on the door yesterday morning.’

  ‘Do not hesitate to enlighten me on that too,’ was delivered with a tone lacking in anything like enthusiasm.

  ‘Was it perhaps deliberate, to drive us into the open? A ploy to match that we had already been duped by?’

  ‘Our hosts?’ Pearce insisted, not wishing to contemplate he might be wrong about that too.

  ‘They went to some lengths to avoid identification, did they not? And before you mention the girl, I suspect Eugenie was not her real name. Hark back to arrangements to get away, not least the tunnel. It speaks of organisation and foresight, which means they knew taking us in r
epresented a risk.’

  ‘Why do I sense hindsight becoming foresight?’

  ‘Curious, those tunnels. They were far from fresh hewn.’

  ‘No doubt they’re the same as exist on our own coasts. Taxes are, as that American cove Franklin said, the only thing as sure as death. The French must have a revenue service too and, I daresay, their citizens are just as adept at avoidance of duties as our own.’

  ‘Hence the connection to the English fraternity,’ was expressed as if it came with enlightenment. ‘Our own people would trust and deal with another smuggler, for sure, whatever the nationality.’

  There was a pause while that was considered. ‘But to continue and, as I do so, I wish to remind you of the number of times you checked me either by word or look, when I did not replicate your unbounded faith.’

  ‘Which,’ Pearce snapped, ‘I put down to your habit of being discourteous when it was uncalled for. We were dependent on their good offices.’

  ‘But it was right to be so.’ That got no response from John Pearce, who was still unwilling to be open about how wrong he had been. ‘We were sent to a house that was not theirs, which, by the way, the girl should not have admitted was the case. Then we were whisked away to one previously abandoned and by a route that made pursuit impossible. Where you see a degree of dissimulation, I see something to admire.’

  ‘It would please me if you’d get to the point.’

  ‘The point is, Pearce, we don’t matter. Arrangements had been made to get us away, of that I’m sure. But they took precautions against us being part of a plot, in order to protect themselves, soon established by the speed with which they apparently came to arrest not just we two, but those harbouring us. The organisation of which they are part is, I now take leave to assume, royalist, widespread and made up of a substantial body of people of some standing. What they have done, by forsaking us to our own devices, is to ensure that it is not any further penetrated.’