A Close Run Thing

by David Donachie

  ‘You got another visitor, an’ private like afore.’

  He should not have gloated, it was unnecessary. But he could not help himself. The look he aimed at Joshua and his fellow ruffians said in words what he was thinking and relishing.

  ‘You swine can die in here, for all I care!’

  Hodgson, a bounty-seeker of repute and fresh back from Somerset, had been found, not at his nearby lodgings, but in a neighbouring tavern to which the clerk had been directed. Having been employed and well rewarded by Ommaney and Druce over a period of over two years, and with no pressing and profitable villains to pursue, he was quick to answer the summons.

  ‘You sent for me, Mr Druce.’

  ‘I require you to take a message to that fellow Gherson.’

  ‘All know he’s in the cells of Newgate, Mr Druce, for foul murder.’

  The reply was acerbic. ‘I’m aware of that, man. I wish you to go there, get him alone and impart to him that I am concerned for his welfare. Just that and no more. What I want is his response.’

  The man Druce was addressing, who had not been invited to sit, possessed a mind as devious as any of the criminals he had collared in a long career. A business that had, at one time, been very lucrative, it was less so now that the likes of the Bow Street Runners were increasingly the fashion. Working for Druce had turned out to be a damn sight easier and even better rewarded, especially when he had been well paid not to find the fellow just mentioned. His task had been to produce false sightings and information, credible enough to keep the search alive, which had been altered only weeks past, changed in favour of seeking dirt on the widow of Captain Barclay.

  Hodgson needed a face of carved stone to deal with Edward Druce on this day. His mind was racing, for the murder for which Gherson stood accused had followed very soon after the commission to find him was terminated. His name had then been added to that of Emily Barclay as someone to watch out for in Frome, but there had been no sign of him there. Obviously he had never left London.

  Of a naturally inquisitive disposition, Hodgson had, over the time he had been working for Druce, sought to uncover the purpose of his strange engagement. He could not enquire of the man who had given him his instructions, but then Druce did not pay him directly; that fell to an accounts clerk, working on instructions. Hodgson totted up his costs, travel and food, then presented a bill, which Druce was required to approve.

  There had never been any kind of query, something he had mentioned in a casual way to the clerk. No previous person who had employed him had been so lacking in curiosity about costs, only to be informed that the expense was being borne, not by the company, but by another. That imparted, there was no attempt to discover more: it would have probably caused the fellow to clam up.

  But, over time, as they had become more familiar, he had extracted the name of his real paymaster: a powerful man in the city and brother-in-law to Druce called Denby Carruthers. The name had meant nothing to him and really he cared little. But he had come back to a ghoulish London to find the city excited by a celebrated crime, and the name of the victim, linked to that of the perpetrator, was too coincidental.

  The thinking must have gone on too long; Druce gave him a challenging glare. ‘Do you comprehend the instruction, Mr Hodgson?’

  ‘Very clearly, sir.’

  ‘Then I’m at a loss to know why you’re still here in my office.’

  ‘I’ll see to it, right off.’

  As Hodgson departed, Druce went back to examining a pile of papers on his desk, there being no farewell or smile, which rankled. In previous encounters, not numerous it was true, he had found the man courteous enough to offer him to sit and, on one occasion, he had been availed of the contents of the decanter. The change of mood was another matter to ponder on as he walked the distance between the Strand and Newgate.

  Though not great, it was full of the usual bustle of hawkers and beggars, sharps and dips, mingling with folk going about their lawful business. Hodgson found a fellow selling penny pamphlets and bought the one relating to the Gherson case, repairing to a coffee house to read it. He absorbed the details of something that had certainly pricked his interest, but no more than that. It was all there in lurid detail: the name, the crime, the mutilation, the plea of innocence, treated as the natural entreaty of the guilty.

  Mid-afternoon found him at the entrance to Newgate, dealing with the same warder who had extracted a shilling from Emily Barclay for the use of a private room, which was required for a second time. Such a rigmarole as she had gone through did not wash with Hodgson. He had experienced life in pursuit of the dregs of humanity, in order to hand them over to justice.

  Newgate was a place he had called into many times before, though not in the last couple of years, usually to see incarcerated some wanted miscreant, so he was well known throughout the district. He had taken his ease hard by the prison, in the taverns of the nearby Old Bailey, drinking ale and eating freshly cooked sausages, usually awaiting a conviction, which would bring him payment for his services.

  He had become well enough known to the court and prison officials to address them by their given names, though this fellow manning the entrance was a stranger, a newcomer and openly avaricious. He had probably purchased the position from his more familiar predecessor, given it was a good place to extract gifts from those visiting relatives.

  ‘Happen I’ll come back when Sir Jerrold is here and ask for a room personally, given I know him of old. He’s never denied me that for which I asked in the past. I wonder how he’ll take to my being dunned for a coin for that which he would grant me gratis.’ Presented with a fallen face, Hodgson produced a penny and a smile. ‘For your trouble.’

  When Gherson was brought into the same room in which he had faced Emily Barclay it was with a swagger, his bruised face bearing a superior and triumphant grin. This immediately disappeared, to be replaced with a look of utter confusion. Before him was a total stranger, a burly fellow with a square face, the scars of healed wounds upon it, a direct and unblinking gaze, the possessor of large hands and powerful shoulders.

  Bareheaded, his hat on the table, he was wearing an expression that gave nothing away, the green eyes fixing the prisoner with a cold look. Gherson was still muddled when he was jammed in a chair, something not eased when the warder was requested to depart. This left him to stare at his non-speaking visitor, a man who knew that silence, in such a situation, generally paid dividends.

  Having read through the whole Gherson affair, it had thrown up too many things that did not smell right. Here before him was the supposed committer of a most heinous crime. To say the fellow was pathetic was only the half of it. Hodgson had sent quite a few killers to the gallows and, if he could not say they fitted a type, he still felt he had a nose for guilt and right now it was not twitching. First, he needed to carry out his instructions. Using the exact words of Edward Druce, they were repeated back to him in a soft and solemn whisper, though there was something not quite right about the tone.

  ‘Druce cares for my welfare?’

  ‘That is what he requested I say.’

  ‘And who are you?’

  ‘What does that matter? D’ye have anything you wish to send back to him in response?’

  Gherson’s head dropped to his chest, but not in fear or supplication; he was thinking and took his time to do so. If he had hoped Hodgson would say more, give him some indication of what was required, he was to be disappointed. After several minutes the head came back up again, to fix this stranger with a direct look.

  ‘Tell him you are not my first visitor today. A certain lady called upon me, at my request, seeking information. She is bound to do so again, very shortly.’

  ‘For what reason?’

  The way Gherson responded demonstrated just how much his attitude had changed. Whatever conclusion he had arrived at in his ruminations seemed to alter completely how he saw the balance. He spoke as if he was in command.

  ‘You are a messenger, not
hing more. Carry the message.’

  Observing the sneer, in a face overly suited to such an expression, Hodgson was tempted to stand up and give Gherson a clout round the ear. No one addressed him in that manner, not even someone who engaged him and was willing to pay. That had to be put aside as the man continued; he must have realised more was required.

  ‘If Druce wishes for my services, then he must outbid her.’

  ‘It would be necessary to know the bid and the name.’

  ‘The name will be known, without your being privy to it. The price for what he wants? Apart from private quarters, I need his aid to prove my innocence.’

  ‘A tall order. I’ve just read this.’

  The penny pamphlet, with its lurid drawings uppermost, was thrown on the table, to be picked up and read by Gherson. A hand went to the throat, no doubt when he reached the part detailing his coming retribution.

  ‘Lies, all lies.’

  ‘Which you wish Mr Druce to disprove. I would say askin’ for the moon.’

  ‘An essential condition, tell him. Without that, his problems will certainly multiply.’

  ‘Anything more?’

  ‘With the room granted and my innocence established, anything more will come in time.’

  Hodgson decided, if there were questions requiring answers, this was not the place to find them. He stood and picked up his hat, moving close to Gherson, to tower over him.

  ‘I have known of you for near two years and wondered all the while who and what you are. Now I have, for the first time, exchanged words with you, I will tell you this. If you ever adopt the manner you have shown to me this day on another occasion, you’ll end up as a Thames corpse. I will see you on a surgeon’s teaching table, being cut up, with the boatman who fishes you out of the river pocketing his half-guinea reward.’

  The blood draining from Gherson’s face was telling to Hodgson, as was the way his body shrank into itself. He was dealing with a weakling who had buckled at what was an invented threat. Jamming his hat back on his head he called for the warder to let him out.

  ‘You may take this turd back from whence he came.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Pearce could only imagine what was happening outside the bulkheads of the cable tier, but he had good reason to believe the crossing was going fairly smoothly. The pitch and roll were regular for hour after hour, to then turn into one of constant change, indicating much tacking and wearing as the captain, he surmised, sought a safe way to enter Dover harbour. It was soon followed by no movement at all, even the timbers ceasing to creak, which indicated they’d come within the arms of the breakwater. Expecting to be released from his chains, the amount of passing time, indicated by the faint and regular ringing of the ship’s bell, was frustrating, so much so that he began to shout, demanding to be set free.

  When the master-at-arms finally appeared, he had behind him a fellow with one peg leg, this first indicated by the tattoo of wood on wood as he approached. As they entered the small pool of lantern light, the affliction was confirmed, but it was not the only one. A naval captain, the fellow had an eyepatch and a much-scarred face, which might have struggled to look benign under any circumstances. Right now there was no attempt to do so: the one good eye was glaring at Pearce and the voice was a rasp.

  ‘Swam aboard, you say?’

  ‘Did that, your honour. Got hisself up the man ropes, an’ all.’

  ‘Would it be possible to unchain me?’ Pearce requested.

  The response was not really a laugh, but it was derisory. ‘They might come off in Calais harbour and not before.’

  ‘I’m a King’s officer.’

  ‘With all the appearance of one.’

  ‘I may not be dressed as such, but I am.’

  ‘Who tells a tale of crossing half of France and not being apprehended in a country full of internal borders and cut-throat Jacobins.’

  ‘Have you come to condemn me, or to ask if what I say is true?’

  That got an unpleasant bark. ‘You would do well not to demand of me, sir.’

  There was a moment when Pearce wondered if pleading and supplication might serve to soften the attitude of this sod. But it didn’t last. He was never happy to suffer ill-treatment, and rank be damned. He spoke with as much force as well as an utter lack of respect.

  ‘I demand to know your name, Captain, so that I may in future visit upon you the consequences of your attitude. I demand to be released from these chains, taken ashore and allowed to contact the representative of my prize agent. I also need to urgently get to London, where I am due to report, in person, to Henry Dundas, the Minister of War.’

  ‘You come aboard in a suspicious manner, dressed in common garments of low quality, with nothing upon you to give a clue to your identity, then make loud claims to be a naval officer with high connections. Do you really expect that to be believed?’

  ‘I do, sir, and I expect to be asked the kind of questions that will establish my bona fides. I have already given a fellow officer the date of my commission and if you’d care to examine the Navy List, you will find that alongside my name. This is quite apart from the fact that I carry a certain amount of notoriety in the service for the manner in which I was elevated to my rank.’

  ‘I require you to explain that.’

  Struck by the flat tone, Pearce had no option but to oblige, to name the vessel in which he’d been a midshipman, the battle, date included, in which he had participated and its outcome. He went on to describe the way he’d been rewarded by King George with a lieutenant’s rank, without the need to sit the mandatory examination. He did not add this had been gifted him for conspicuous gallantry: even in such a situation, Pearce was not one to boast.

  ‘Who was your superior?’

  ‘Lieutenant, now Captain Colbourne, who lost an arm in the action, an officer I’m still in dispute with over my share of the prize money.’

  ‘Your agent is?’

  ‘Alexander Davidson.’

  ‘Who acts for many naval officers, can you name one?’

  ‘Captain Horatio Nelson, alongside whom I very recently served.’

  ‘His command is?’

  ‘HMS Agamemnon. Eggs and Bacon to the common seaman.’

  The one good eye blinked at that soubriquet. The voice, when he responded, wasn’t friendly, but neither was it the rasp with which he’d begun. ‘Unlock the shackles.’

  ‘So you now believe me?’

  ‘Aye. But knowing for certain now who you are, I would dearly like to leave you locked up and hand you back over to our enemies, an act for which I would receive the approbation of every officer in the service.’

  He made to leave, his final words delivered over his shoulder. ‘You may make your own way ashore.’

  ‘Which I did, still in near rags and obliged to seek out Davidson’s proxy. It was far from easy to convince him to provide the means to find a place to eat and sleep, pending a reply to the letter I wrote.’

  Heinrich Lutyens looked pensive, which did little to flatter his rather pinched looks. ‘I find it hard to accept the way you were treated.’

  ‘Necessary, I was firmly told. Once I had some funds and could dress properly, I called at the Navy Yard and sought out the sod who’d interrogated me.’

  ‘To no doubt expose yourself to more abuse?’

  ‘Not so. I first made it plain the outcome of that would be him and I in a field at dawn, accepting pistols since a peg leg can hardly fight with a sword.’

  His friend looked to the ceiling, as if to say what folly, as Pearce related the excuses provided and the outcome. The connection between France and England had to be kept scrupulously free from taint. It was not to be used for nefarious purposes, lest it be curtailed by one or the other who took benefit from it.

  ‘What better way to smuggle a spy into England than in the guise of an escaped naval officer?’ Pearce emitted a hollow laugh. ‘I suspect it to be so much stuff. I reckon, on being told my name, he decided to mak
e matters as uncomfortable as he could. It was all show.’

  The sounds from the hallway indicated Emily had returned and Pearce went to meet her, his eagerness somewhat muted by her reaction at the sight of him, which bordered on the disconcerted. Lutyens, left in the drawing room, was wondering what she would say, given John was likely to ask where she’d been. He knew, but when enquired of it earlier, he had pleaded ignorance.

  ‘You’re home?’ Emily said, actually biting her lip.

  The reply was forcibly cheerful; Emily had been far from happy when he departed, as much because he sought to deceive her as the fact of doing so. He was exposing himself to danger, unnecessarily so in her estimation. All the problems of their relationship seemed to be in the manner of the greeting: reserved when it should be joyous.

  ‘As I said I would be, and in one piece.’

  ‘For which the Lord be thanked.’

  ‘Are we to converse in the hallway, Emily?’ The fact of it being witnessed by the servant waiting to take her cloak needed no mention.

  ‘I am about to go up to Adam.’

  ‘Then I will happily join with you.’

  They were in Adam’s little room and the nursemaid gone before anything more was said. Pearce was nonplussed by the lack of conversation, even if she was fussing over their son. There was no enquiry as to the success or failure of what he’d been about, added to a distinct air of something not being revealed, which prompted him to ask.

  ‘Has anything happened while I’ve been away?’

  ‘What could possibly have occurred?’

  ‘Any number of things. I’m assuming you’ve stayed in London waiting for me?’

  ‘Adam has,’ she replied.

  The swaddled child was handed over, which naturally occupied him for several minutes of cooing and asking questions he was too young to answer, revelling in the slightest hint of a reaction: a winning smile, even if he knew it was likely caused by wind. Yet he was also aware of the stillness of Emily, a sort of rigidity to her posture, which was not natural. He was tempted to ask again, to then be made cautious by the air of a pending statement, which he suspected would not be one to cheer him.