‘There is much to cast an eye over and, as for detail, I would say it might take a whole afternoon and even then it could only be cursory.’
‘Mr Druce, you must have other business to attend to and it would be remiss of me to occupy your office. Perhaps, if you could have the papers transferred to another room?’
The lips twitched, not towards a smile, but as evidence of resolve. ‘No, no. I would be failing in my duty to you if I was not on hand to answer the numerous questions that are bound to arise.’
Emily knew it would not serve: not only was the pile formidable but she was far from sure she could make head nor tale of the contents. Ommaney might have talked down to her, but he had the right of it. When it came to accounts she was out of her depth. She needed to cut to the chase.
‘There was a venture to which I was privy and one which made me curious.’
‘And that is?’
Did he notice the way she took in a huge amount of air, brought on by nerves, before she responded, for he was giving her an odd look, part curiosity, part an indication of unease.
‘I would wish you to explain to me the details of the shares taken out in the Bingham and Waverley Canal.’
The lips tightened into a narrow line. ‘Might I enquire why?’
‘I wondered why funds were taken out of three per cent government Consols, to be committed to a type of project which is, by common consent, highly speculative.’
The look she was receiving had a hard edge now, which made her continue to speak, when silence would have served her better, especially when what she then implied was pure invention.
‘And there were other placements, vouchsafed to me by my husband, of which I have a vague knowledge.’
Druce could not resist the rejoinder, given what he suspected regarding her behaviour as a wife. Nor could he keep a sarcastic edge out of his voice. ‘Captain Barclay obviously placed great trust in your opinion, Madame, even if you were rarely in the same place together.’
The strong emphasis on the last two words had Emily blink. This pleased Druce and it showed. He felt he had found a way to get back on top of the conversation.
‘That particular canal investment was done with the full knowledge of Captain Barclay.’ A hand was waved towards the trolley. ‘Indeed, I could, given time, show you the very correspondence allowing us permission to employ a portion of his funds in that venture.’
Druce went back to his previous avuncular tone, forcing Emily to supress her irritation. ‘And, I would add, it is quite common for a portfolio as extensive and well funded as that of your late husband to have within it both safe investments such as Consols and those of the nature you describe. We would, in the future, perhaps recommend similar opportunities to you. Should they come to full fruition, they are highly profitable and the risk is thus justified.’
‘For Ommaney and Druce as much as a client, I suggest.’
‘We take our commissions, which are set by prior arrangement.’ The trolley was alluded to again. ‘The documents in question are there to inspect, though it will take me a while to locate them.’
‘There’s no need. I clearly recall that particular projection carried the signature of my husband’s clerk.’
‘Who would surely have been instructed by Captain Barclay?’
‘I had a pleading note from Gherson.’
That threw him. All he could say, eyebrows raised was, ‘Surely not from Newgate?’
‘Where else?’
‘And plead he should, but to the Lord Almighty for his soul.’
‘He claims to be innocent.’ Emily made the next point in a calm voice, as if she was questioning her own view. ‘He refers to the arrival of two brutes, who first felled him, then ravaged and mutilated Mrs Carruthers while he was unconscious.’
Edward Druce should have reacted loudly and with outright disbelief at such a claim, but he failed to do so. His actual response came as almost a whisper, his eyes cast down as well for – and she was not to know this – his mind was in turmoil.
‘All such scoundrels claim innocence. It is the nature of the criminal.’
‘But if it’s true, it would mean someone else is responsible for the cruel and foul death of your sister-in-law.’
‘Poor Catherine,’ was all he said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
As accommodation, the cable tier, on what was a small vessel, was far from comfortable, yet Pearce was loath to think of it in a negative way. Where it might have had slung hammocks, given the crew was not required to fight, their numbers were small enough to render this unnecessary. He was, after all, on his way home and what was an obvious error would soon be corrected.
Being amidships, the pitching of the ship was muted, but yaw and sway it did, the timbers creaking mightily. In this lay evidence of the state of the English Channel, a stretch of water unpredictable and rarely calm, with a particularity all of its own in the choppy nature of the waves, which could render seriously seasick even experienced blue water sailors.
The level of movement came from the swinging lantern, the tallow wad both smoky as well as smelly, without which he would have been left in total darkness. Food had been provided: boiled pork, duff and bread rather than biscuit, fresh from the bakeries of Calais. With a small beer to wash it down, even shackled, he made the best of what was a rudimentary berth.
Naturally, he wondered how Oliphant was faring, but his main focus was on his own immediate needs once he got ashore. He would have to make contact with Alexander Davidson, who, like most prize agents, had some form of representation in all the major ports. On the sending of a letter, funds could be released to pay for better clothing and for onward travel to London.
In truth what he required should come from Henry Dundas; he was after all on government business. But Pearce had no notion to wait till the Minister for War, never a man to be fond of, got round to meeting his obligations. A bill he would certainly present, which even if it were acknowledged would not be met until sometime in the very distant future.
Most of the time he was stuck in another one of those longueurs, of which he’d had so many in the last few days, with time to gnaw on the same problems over and over, in what seemed to be a rotating list of worries and aspirations, none of the latter certain of fulfilment. But nature would reassert itself and he would eventually come round to counting his blessings.
Reprising the words of Oliphant on the mole, put against what had happened to him indicated many inconstancies. Was it possible, as his companion had implied, that he had been picked up from a boat just outside the harbour? It seemed far-fetched. More likely he’d got across the Channel with the smugglers connected to his Marie, a fact he kept hidden, just another example of the man’s propensity to muddy everything to do with his activities.
The temptation to sleep, albeit uncomfortably, was hampered by the rats, ever at home in the hold and bilges just below the orlop deck. Already much enlivened by the smell of his meal, they would do more than just investigate his bare toes if he closed his eyes. Thankfully, the man who’d brought his food was sympathetic. As well as refreshing the lantern, he brought with him some grease to ease the friction of his ankle chains, as well as a long broom handle with which to keep the pests at bay. A chatty soul, a mate to the master-at-arms, he reassured Pearce that good progress was being made: the ship was eating up the twenty-two miles needed to make Dover harbour.
‘With this wind, we’ll raise it well afore night falls. Happen you’ll soon be in a shoreside gaol, instead of here.’
‘I will be thankful for that,’ Pearce replied; he deemed it unnecessary to insist he would be sleeping in the comfort of a tavern.
‘Many a time it’s taken a week at sea and never to make a landfall, with trying to get back into Calais a waste and Dover deadly as ever with its crossing currents. That’s without a westerly gale. Once we were blown so far north, we made our landfall halfway to the Humber.’
He paused and peered at Pearce, as if in by
doing so enlightenment would follow. ‘Word t’ween decks is you’re a Frenchie.’
No mention of officer rank? But he had only vouchsafed that to the man he encountered on coming aboard. Best keep it to himself. ‘Word is wrong, friend. I am a true son of Britannia, which will be established as soon as we tie up.’
‘Better be, brother, for they’ll ship you back across and hand you over if you ain’t. Won’t be the first time. Got to keep Johnny Crapaud happy.’
‘Who decides?’
‘Some blue coat from the Port Admiral will come aboard when we dock. Has the job of inspecting what we carry. Miserable sod, all say.’
‘Then it will be my task to cheer him up.’
Emily was sure she had played a good hand with Druce, keeping to herself the fact she had actually visited Gherson. She would have been less happy on her way back to Harley Street if she could have seen into the workings of his mind. Thinking on what had just passed between them, Druce had come, after lengthy deliberation, to a troubling conclusion. The late Captain Barclay’s devious clerk, who had represented risk before his confinement, could still do so now. What was he doing writing to Emily Barclay?
In consideration, the claim to be au fait with the aforementioned document, on the canal investment, just did not ring true. Husband and wife had not shared such a relationship for two years. Had she stumbled upon something in among Barclay’s personal papers? Surely, if that were the case, she would have said so and not claimed memory. If the information regarding that piece of market manipulation had not come from Barclay, then where? It was not quite a jolt when Druce saw his original line of thought to be utterly awry.
Ralph Barclay should have been in the dark about the true nature of that piece of speculation, which was why it was signed off by Gherson. This was part of an arrangement that allowed both the clerk and the company to profit. Ergo, he was the only person who could have passed on the facts. How and when? Only the clerk, still alive because of the court recess, could provide a clue.
The notion of visiting Gherson in Newgate himself was swiftly abandoned; he was related by marriage to the victim of the crime for which he was sure to hang, which brought to mind, much as he would wish it otherwise, that claim of innocence. Gherson, even with his manifest faults, was not the murderous type. A thief yes, a lecher too, who had seduced Catherine Carruthers while employed by his brother-in-law.
An image of Denby Carruthers: irascible, and the manner of his reaction to being cuckolded engendered a train of troubling scenarios and memories he was quick to repress, speculations he was determined to avoid for the possibility of where they may lead. The Gherson business must be attended to first, so the bell was rung to fetch his clerk.
‘You have had occasion to call at Mr Hodgson’s lodging before. I wish you to do so now. Ask him to call upon me at his earliest convenience.’
‘Now, sir?’
‘Immediately.’
As the man departed, Druce went to the trolley containing the Barclay paperwork. They would need to be filleted so the man’s widow, or anyone acting on her behalf, only had sight of that which he, Druce, wished them to see. He could not entrust the going through of those to anyone but himself, which meant there would be much burning of midnight oil.
Added to that, certain arrangements of a questionable nature might have to be liquidated, prior to their maturing in the way intended. If it entailed a loss of profit, so be it; the reputation of the business and his well-being demanded it. Ommaney would not be pleased, and that too would have to be managed.
Gherson was worrying and with good reason. To have, as a visitor, a pretty lady with a purse deep enough to secure a private room had, thanks to gossipy warders, quickly become common knowledge in a place where the keeping of secrets was impossible. There were a group of inmates of the Men’s Quadrangle who already suspected him of having connections to moneyed folk, bullying rogues who could see some advantage in it for themselves.
Trading his clothes to fund the delivery of his note to Emily Barclay was likewise no secret. A bit of pressure had been put on those who had smuggled it out. Thanks to the lack of sealing wax, people who should be in ignorance of the contents were not. The words inscribed and such knowledge made him a target and a lack of popularity did nothing to help.
Gherson could never mask his disdain for those he saw as beneath him which, given his narcissism, extended up as far as the governor himself. When it came to those who shared the common cells, he would sneer at their failings, while he held the warders in barely concealed contempt. This saw batons regularly employed to show him who had the whip hand.
Locked in the communal cell, he would occupy a corner, necessary to keep an eye on certain folk, while also ensuring his back was not exposed. Now, as he shuffled around the high-walled exercise yard, he was cursing the name of Barclay; alive or dead he damned all who possessed it, even if she had responded as he hoped. This had to be put aside as a trio of hard bargains sidled up to be close, talking amongst themselves, but with words aimed at discomfiting him.
‘Makes you wonder what a body gets up to in a private room, door shut.’
‘Happen a bit of wick dipping, Joshua.’
‘Must be a mad bitch, Loomis, and desperate, seeking a length from a scrub.’
‘An’ paying out handsome for it. I heard silver changed hands.’
If Gherson hated and despised all three, it matched the feelings he had for the near hundred bodies with whom he shared his cell. Many were desperate souls in much worse condition than he, while in age they ranged from boys with unbroken voices, had up for thieving bread or a handkerchief, to white-haired dotage and in many cases to outright madness. All were fit to be preyed upon by the likes of these three, who crawled to the warders and were ever ready to inform for a bit of privilege. A two-way affair, the warders passed on information they should have kept to themselves.
‘If he slipped her one, happen she slid him a purse.’
‘Hard to hide in them rags he traded for.’
That came with a hoot and a leer from Joshua. ‘Happen we’ll need to see if there’s ow’t up his arse. Pleasure to be had as well as coin.’
Cornelius Gherson, having been cast on to the streets when a callow youth thanks to continuous thieving from his own family, had often been obliged to deal with people like this. If his looks and lack of scruple had brought him occasional prosperity, his abiding overconfidence had seen him fall into penury just as often.
In dreams, both waking and sleeping, he would chastise such creatures as this trio with such force they would beg for his forgiveness, which was gleefully never forthcoming. But life was no reverie and being the man he was, with his vivid imagination, which saw pain or death everywhere aimed at him, he was fearful to an overarching degree. Yet he knew how to survive, how to deflect the threat he was now facing, even if he could not keep the tremor out of his voice, or control his trembling knees.
‘My bruising was remarked upon in that room,’ he said, to deflect any chance of an immediate blow. ‘Someone so sweet on me might have a word in high places.’
‘Warders’ taps, Gherson,’ Joshua scoffed, ‘ain’t what we would be handing out if the mood took us.’
If they had been informed about the private meeting, they must also have been told of the third presence, of the rough-looking fellow who had stood silently by the window. So all this talk of carnality was either for show or their own amusement.
‘I have a high hope to soon be in a place better than this, away from the common cells.’
‘An’ here’s me thinkin’ you took to our company. Like a brother, I reckoned.’
Joshua – Gherson knew of no other name – who had produced this ironic jest was the prime malcontent of this lot. But there were many more to do his bidding, enough to make even the warders have a care around his person. Being close to the sod meant better food, an occasional bit of baccy and other treats, usually taken from newly incarcerated and weaker prisoners.
The life they lived was not much better than the collective lot, but in Newgate, the margin of improvement did not have to be high.
‘I could be in a position to share a bit of comfort.’
‘Easy to say back to the wall, Gherson. But once you’se away from the reach of my fist …’
‘No one stays here for ever, Joshua, and I have no mind to be ever on guard when walking the streets.’
‘You’ll not be troubled by that, with your neck stretched.’
Gherson’s reply was fervent, a combination of hope and belief. ‘That will not happen. I shall be freed from here long before I face a beak.’
‘Blameless, is we?’
‘Did I ever tell you, Joshua,’ Loomis sneered, in response to the query: it was his turn to jest, ‘I is here by error? Had up for a bit of thievery done by another hand and never my word taken.’
‘Same as every other sod in this yard, I reckon. Best we lift what’s on offer now than hold to false promise.’
‘What can you get out of me now, Joshua? The rags I have or my portion of bread? Take it if you must, but if silver was handed over today, for word not to be overheard, who’s to say it won’t be gold on the morrow?’
‘Which metal lines your tongue?’ Loomis spat.
Joshua put his nose near to touching distance. ‘Be careful of what you promise, Gherson. Gold, eh? If it turns to glister, there’ll be no call for a rope.’
‘Get moving, you lot,’ called a warder. ‘You’se here to exercise your legs not your jaws.’
It being a command best obeyed, Gherson was able to rejoin the circle of prisoners for the remainder of their hour. It was near time to return to the cells when his name was loudly called, his stomach contracting in fear and his legs nearly giving way, fearing a special court was in session and it presaged a trip to the scaffold.
A Close Run Thing Page 8
