A Close Run Thing

by David Donachie

  Lying on his belly and easing his body over the edge, he felt with his toes for just such a gap, glad when they slipped into an opening with which he could support his weight. Grasping the rough edge timbers, he lowered himself further, searching again with one foot for another rung and having trouble locating one. Pearce knew he was not gifted with time; in his mind’s eye he could envisage the ship’s boats fully manned and standing off to commence the tow. It would take a matter of minutes, no more, before the ship began to move.

  Desperation forced him to go lower without caution, leaving him unsure if he’d found another foothold. His weight was now being borne on a hand thrust into the opening previously occupied by his toes, those now feeling for another gap. Uncertain, he had to take a risk on what could only be a possibility, one he soon came to realise had failed.

  Lacking any secure footing there was no option but to push off with all the force he could muster, this to avoid a painful and possibly crippling contact with the outwards slant of the mole’s base. He was falling towards the water, with no idea of what he would come into contact with – possibly not water, but some hard and maiming object.

  He hit the water with the loud splash he had earlier sought to avoid, momentum taking him below the surface, the icy cold penetrating his being. He was never to know the noise it made coincided with, and was masked by, the spliced end of the prow cable. Lifted off its bollard, it had been thrown with force, landing on the surface at the same time as him.

  When he came to the surface to look for the reaction from those on the mole, there was none. So Pearce struck out, noting, even at sea level, the gap between the prow and the mole was opening up. A powerful swimmer, he had to restrain his strokes: in the now strengthening light, being too forceful would cause noisy splashes and they could attract attention. Because of that restraint, he came very close to failing in his first object, to get to the outer side of the ship. Only a thrust-out hand on the very prow, below the figurehead, saved him, taking him out with it.

  The ship would, in a very short time, be stern on to the shore. As it continued to swing, the side by which he hoped to get aboard would become visible on the mole where people might be watching. Or would such a common sight as a vessel off to sea mean attention would turn elsewhere? He could not know and nor could he take the risk.

  If the copper lining the ship’s bottom kept out worm, it was not immune to barnacles and weed, enough to provide purchase for his bare feet. With a combination of swimming and pushing, Pearce made his way along the side towards the man ropes and battens, this as the prow continued to swing outwards, acting to shorten the time he had to succeed.

  He made the point below the gangway to find, while the foot battens continued below the waterline, the ropes were set for entry to and from a boat, not a man lifting himself bodily from the sea. He attempted a sort of leap with nothing but water to push off from and his right hand got hold of a rope at full arm’s length. Pulling hard got him far enough up to get a hand on the left side line. Then, with feet scrabbling on slippery weed, he managed to get one foot on a batten.

  The effort so far expended had sapped him to the point where he could only hang there immobile. But the imminent prospect of coming into view from land gave him the motivation to pull himself up, hand by hand, foot by foot. He made his way slowly and deliberately up the side, until his head came to the point where the gangway met the timbers of the deck.

  Another half-heave allowed him a snail’s eye view, thankfully with no sign of legs or feet; the gangway was unguarded. His aim was to crawl aboard, hoping to be unseen until he could get below, not that he reckoned to be able to remain a stowaway for the entire crossing. As soon as the cartel cleared those breakwaters, he would be out of French waters and could declare himself to the captain, he hoped with no risk of being put back ashore. He was halfway to where he needed to be when a gruff but commanding voice spoke.

  ‘And who, sir, in the name of creation are you?’

  Dripping wet, hair plastered to his face, there was no option but to get onto the deck and stand upright, to see before him a naval officer of quite advanced years, white hair peeking out from under his scraper, added to bulging eyes and a seriously crabbed expression. At something like attention and with a direct look, the reply came out with as much force as he could muster.

  ‘Lieutenant John Pearce, of his Britannic Majesty’s Navy, at your service.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The elderly officer before him spun round to look towards the stern. There, gathered at the taffrail, stood a party of those departing, all civilians looking towards the mole and the shore they were leaving, one fellow vigorously waving. None were looking in the direction of the officer and the dripping specimen he was far from shielding. If the several men around the wheel, those both steering and supervising, had noticed his arrival, they were ignoring it.

  ‘Damn you man, get below and out of sight.’

  Pearce required no second bidding; all it would take to raise curiosity, if not actual alarm, was that one of those saying farewell should turn. The lanterns as always were lit below; daylight was never of a strength to make its way to the main deck, even with the ports open, and they were tight shut now. Mess tables were down, awaiting the men who’d occupy them once the ship was clear of the shore and breakfast could be consumed. It was under one of these he dived, not that it provided much in the way of concealment.

  There he crouched, ready to spring away if necessary. The sight of shoes and white stockings on the companionway nearly sent him scurrying, but a voice, calling for him to reveal himself, was doing so in English and could surely be no threat. He emerged to find the same fellow who had previously damned him, still glaring and still far from happy, judging by the growling tone of his voice.

  ‘Do you, sir, have any idea what you have risked?’

  ‘I have risked my life.’

  ‘While putting into jeopardy that of many more by your action. The captain has a damn good mind to send you ashore.’

  ‘From the tone of that, sir, I discern that you have spoken to him and he’s not going to do so?’

  The look and jerk of the head to this response, indicated he thought his superior mistaken. ‘Follow me.’

  The squat figure stomped off, heading along the deck towards the marine sentry guarding the wardroom door, a man whose eyes, very deliberately, made no contact with either Pearce or his escort. Good discipline or caution, Pearce couldn’t tell. The wardroom, once entered, was deserted; everyone who resided here would be occupied at such a time and so should be the lieutenant who had brought him here. His years and the worn state of his apparel indicated the rank to be one he had held for some time.

  ‘Your name again?’

  That provided, he demanded, ‘You carry nothing to identify you?’

  Pearce held his arms out; where on his person would it be? ‘I fear you must take my word, sir.’

  ‘The date of your commission?’

  That provided, Pearce was happy to note two things: it caused no negative reaction, while the satisfied look indicated the man before him was, by time served, his superior.

  ‘And how do you come to be in enemy territory?’

  Here the truth served very well. ‘I was taking part in a cutting out expedition at Le Havre, but failed to get away when our boats pulled off.’

  ‘On which ship?’

  ‘HMS Circe.’

  Quickly aware of the proximity of Deal, from where the frigate had sailed, and the port of Dover, the danger existed that this fellow would know the captain and officers of that vessel. He waited with some trepidation for an enquiry, relieved when it didn’t come.

  ‘I was not part of the ship’s company,’ was added, as a precaution and, as for truth, it required to be discarded in favour of invention. ‘I was visiting a relative, heard of the proposed operation and volunteered to take part. I do believe it was a success, but I can’t say for certain. I sought to hide as soon as I realise
d I could be taken prisoner. My task then was to find a way of getting out of Le Havre and to Calais, which would surely provide me with a higher chance of getting home again.’

  That got raised brows, which were hairy enough to hang right over eyes full of disbelief. ‘You managed to make your way from Le Havre to Calais?’

  ‘Partly on foot and also by a series of lifts on carts with the locals.’

  ‘You did not fear exposure?’

  ‘I’m lucky enough to be able to speak good French and I had quickly discarded my uniform. What clothing I am wearing now was stolen.’

  That induced a pensive response, then a command. ‘Wait here.’

  The lieutenant wasn’t gone long and, when he re-entered, it was in the company of two marines and a petty officer in a tarred hat. ‘Master-at-arms, take this fellow to the cable tier and put him in chains.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I suggest you may be an imposter.’

  ‘I protest,’ was the feeble response.

  ‘You may do so as much as you wish, sir, but I find your tale you tell to be one that is not credible. To journey from Le Havre to Calais without interference, in such a heathen country, at such a time? If we must guard against exposure when one of our own seeks to escape, we must also allow for the possibility of the vessel being used to smuggle scoundrels into England, people who are intent on doing the nation harm. Master-at-arms, carry on.’

  ‘Could I request some dry clothing?’

  ‘Damn your effrontery.’

  Edward Druce had before him a report from the man he had despatched down to Somerset. Hodgson had been sent to find out if there was anything untoward in the life of Emily Barclay that would be of use to the firm should they be in dispute with her. His man could only say that, after a few days, she had departed for London and, lacking anything to observe that was in any way out of the ordinary, and having elicited no information of note, he felt it best that he return.

  In this he had inadvertently acted as Druce would have ordered; the reasons for his mission were no longer of concern. These had evolved around a will, produced by Cornelius Gherson, which had subsequently been established to be a forgery. The seeking of less than flattering information on Emily Barclay was now unnecessary. She was the true and undisputed heir to Captain Barclay’s legacy and, more importantly, was about to call on him.

  She was received in the manner reserved for a wealthy client, fulsomely and with insincere humility. This was carried out even if, in his heart, there was a degree of reserve. There had to be a chequer in her past, even if he had no precise knowledge of what it could be. He knew for certain her late husband had asked him to find her when she went missing, a clear indication she had been estranged from Captain Barclay.

  Hence the employment of Hodgson, a well-known and successful thief-taker. His enquiries had failed to find her, but had raised the name of a certain John Pearce as a possible lover. More recently, given certain facts to which he was definitely privy, like a list of dates and the location of the people involved, there was room for serious doubt that Captain Barclay was the father of her child.

  None of this must be referred to: if she wore the mask of respectability, when she had been anything but, then he must accept it and deal with her accordingly. But first he had to allude to the unfortunate matter of the forged will and how it had occupied both himself and his partner, as they had set out to disprove its validity. That he had delayed meeting her, while he waited for any dirt to emerge, she would never know.

  ‘But this you will know of from my correspondence, which I sent to your family home, letters which I assume have brought you up to town.’

  ‘Correspondence that I received only yesterday. I have been in London for over a week.’

  ‘Then being in town, I’m curious as to why you did not make contact prior to this.’

  ‘It was not any reservation on my part, Mr Druce. I was waiting for you to contact me. I do believe that was agreed with your clerk. It was the very day when news came of the unfortunate death of your sister-in-law. Your man informed me how that had taken you from the office and was likely to occupy you for some time. I asked that you should write to me when you were able to attend to your affairs and left my London address.’

  The lie was delivered with well-practised ease. ‘Such a message was not vouchsafed to me.’

  ‘How odd.’

  ‘Whatever happened, I must thank you for your indulgence.’

  ‘A terrible affair,’ Emily responded.

  ‘Made worse by becoming a public humiliation, with the name of my relative bandied about in the streets.’

  Given the nature of the crime and the standing in the city of Alderman Denby Carruthers, the grisly details of the event were now the subject of lurid pamphlets. These were being hawked in the streets for a penny, with added drawings of the scene and the dramatis personae. The villainous murderer, the grieving husband and most shocking, a drawing of the dead victim as imagined by the illustrator.

  ‘Naturally her husband is distraught and my own wife, his sister, has taken to comforting him within our home. He cannot face a night in his own house. Quite apart from being importuned by strangers, it evokes fond memory and a veritable cascade of misery.’

  The Denby house was an object of public curiosity, with endless streams of folk passing by, some even rapping on the knocker, in the hope of eliciting from within some intimate, scurrilous detail unknown to the common herd.

  ‘You have my condolences, of course.’

  ‘I am glad to find you in London. This will save me corresponding with you on the subject of some investments requiring attention.’

  ‘The very matter that has brought me here today, sir.’

  Emily had determined before setting out she would act normally. Yet she found that difficult when actually faced with this man, given the information provided by Gherson. This had driven her back to the papers that had been in her husband’s possession when he died. Previously examined in order to discredit the false will, she had gone back to them after her visit to Newgate, seeking to establish if what he implied was true, which left her uncertain. Emily was made aware she did not possess the kind of skill required to establish matters one way or the other.

  There was a certain respect for her father, whom she had never seen as very adept with such things as investments. Yet he had pointed out that canal trusts were high risk, not that he had any experience of such things as financial transactions. He would have picked up the information from his frequent visits to the town coffee shops, where the people who did took their beverages and their news.

  ‘Now I am here and, since the previous business of the will has been discredited, perhaps you can advise me of where I stand.’

  ‘You’re a very wealthy woman, Mrs Barclay, but I assume you know that.’

  ‘It would please me to have that established, not only in value, but also in a breakdown of what investments I hold and how they are performing.’

  ‘I had assumed a figure continually and monthly updated would suffice?’

  ‘Detail will suffice, Mr Druce.’

  The way he looked at her, like an indulgent parent, dealing with an awkward child, was irritating. ‘I’m sure you would be less troubled if you placed your faith in us, as did your husband.’

  ‘It may be I’m of a more enquiring disposition than Captain Barclay.’

  ‘Detail?’

  ‘Nothing less.’

  Druce paused for some time before nodding and ringing a bell, to bring forth the very clerk who had seemingly failed to pass on her message. Given the exchange on that was so recent, it seemed odd Druce did not enquire on the reason. Instead he asked that the relevant files be fetched, adding, with a direct look at his factotum, ‘All the files.’ His gaze swung back to her. ‘Legal documents included, for we are still in dispute over that merchantman taken in ’93. You may recall they are insisting their vessel was salvage, not a prize.’

  ‘Still?�
� was posited with amazement.

  ‘The Admiralty Prize Court moves slowly, Mrs Barclay. Also, one must have a care that lawyers’ costs do not eat up all that is there to be fought over. We spend half our time fighting to deny the opposite advocate’s applications for fees.’

  The taking of that ship was as fresh in her memory as the day it happened, yet in a year which seemed a lifetime away. How different she had been then: naïve, not long wed and trusting of her husband, sure her marriage would be successful. Druce talking brought her back to the present.

  ‘I hope you’re not pressed for time, Mrs Barclay. There is much to examine. In the meantime, I have been remiss in not offering you some refreshment. Would you prefer tea, coffee or wine?’

  ‘Tea, please.’

  The bell was rung once more, the beverage ordered and Druce’s partner sent for to be introduced. Ommaney was a substantial man, large of belly and jowl, sleek and well garbed, with a palpable sense of his own importance. He also had a condescending attitude, giving her an arch look when told of her request to fully examine her legacy. It was as if to say she should not worry her head about such things; that was business for men.

  ‘A fine upstanding officer, Captain Barclay, and a credit to the service. You must greatly miss him.’

  The lie was smooth and, by now, well practised: she had been required to respond many times to those expressing sympathy at home. ‘Of course I do, Mr Ommaney, every waking hour. But now, as a widow, I must look to the future and that of my son.’

  ‘Rest assured,’ Ommaney boomed, ‘we are here to advise you and, should you find it burdensome, you must allow us to relieve you of tasks that are onerous and time-consuming. Markets move upon the hour and rare is the person of commonplace interests who can devote the time to keeping abreast of such things.’

  ‘But I’m eager to learn, sir.’

  It required a small trolley to bring all the files and, even if she knew her husband had been a success in the article of prize money, the pile was daunting enough to make her wonder if she had time to do that for which she had come. Ommaney gave the trolley a quizzical look, frowned at Druce, made a few more flattering remarks about her late husband, and departed.