by Lee Rowan
“Who was he?”
“Tom Jenkins, one of the local lads. He was twenty-four or five, I believe. The elder of Ezra Jenkins’ two sons. I don’t know if you’ve ever paid attention, but it’s generally known that Ezra is the chief of the free-trade gentlemen in this area.”
“Getting on in years, is he?” Carlisle said, thinking of Matthews’ assessment of the affair. He was better placed to catch local gossip than Sir Thomas could possibly be—but the magistrate had access to official information.
Livingston nodded. “Yes, that’s how I see it, too. Tom was his right hand, and Roger’s neither old nor clever enough to take his place.”
“Have you any suspects? One of my people says there’ve been no outsiders around lately; is that correct?”
“Yes, as far as I know. I think it unlikely that he could have been in a fight with Preventives; there were two on patrol in the area the night of the last landing, but I’ve spoken to them, and they claim they never saw a soul.”
Carlisle had heard stories of smugglers’ cash being used to buy the silence of patrol officers. “Are they honest?
“It’s hard to say, but if they were where they said they were, they’d have been miles away from where he was found. Tom was involved in the trade, of course—they all are—but I say it’s a pity because he was one of the more sensible young men who realize that the game is bound to play out. Now that the war’s over, there’ll be enough soldiers over at Chatham to outnumber the smugglers, and ships to cut them off from their trade. I’d thought Tom might have been amenable to reason, if he’d lived to take over the gang from his father.”
“Do you think that’s why he was killed?”
Livingston shook his head. “It’s difficult to say. I believe there’s some sort of division in the ranks at the moment, perhaps a power struggle. I’ve heard that Jenkins has had words with a fellow named Bowker, but nothing about the cause of the quarrel. If Bowker set his toughs upon Jenkins’ son, it could either be a warning, or revenge.”
“That’s a nice bundle of speculation, Sir Thomas,” Carlisle said mildly. “Is there any particular information you wish me to seek?”
“Why, certainly! Just a collection of nice, tidy, irrefutable evidence that will let me bring Bowker—or whoever is responsible —to trial. I’d particularly like an eyewitness, if you can manage it.”
“Oh, and I thought you were going to ask me to do something difficult.”
Livingstone chuckled. “Carlisle, no matter what I ask you to look for, you can find no more than what’s there. But the fact is, someone killed him, and Ezra Jenkins has been an influential man around here for a decade or more. Someone’s bound to know something.”
He seemed about to continue, but the footman returned with a tray: fresh rolls, ham and sausage, scrambled eggs, and a two small loaves of bread. Sir Thomas dismissed the man and they helped themselves to food from the covered dishes, dispensing with business talk for a little while.
Eventually Sir Thomas finished his meal and poured himself another cup of coffee. “I don’t expect you to go about making arrests, of course,” he said, continuing where he’d left off. “I can call in the Army for that. All I hope for is a good excuse to rid the district of one of its more dangerous ruffians, if he is nearby. I suspect he has left the area, transporting that last shipment to the next stop along the line.”
“How long would you expect him to be gone?”
“Ordinarily, that would depend on what they brought in, and how they were moving it. If the shipment was broken up and passed along to boats on the Thames, perhaps a few days. If they moved it overland, longer. I don’t know what came in, this time. My footman keeps his ears open when he’s down in the village, but I’ve warned him against asking questions, for his own safety. He has to go among ‘em, and I don’t want him losing his life from being suspected as an informer.”
“I tell my people much the same,” Carlisle said, “and what they have heard agrees with what you’ve told me.”
“Another thing—if the parties responsible for the attack on Tom Jenkins know he’s died, they may decide to take a holiday, for their health’s sake.”
That made a great deal of sense. The local folk might protect a man who’d beaten up a rival, but they might draw the line at covering a murder of one of their own. Carlisle almost wished the killer would leave the area and never return. “Perhaps I should not be trying to discover if there are any unfamiliar faces about, but if there’s anyone missing.” That was something Matthews might know. “Where’s the body being kept?”
“At the family home, which happens to be part of the Wise Old Owl.”
“Ah, that’s right, I’d forgotten Jenkins owns the inn.”
“Indeed he does, and I hope the coroner makes all possible speed to hold that inquest. I would not put it past old Ezra to hold the funeral as soon as may be, no matter what the law requires.”
“I shall drop by the Owl, then. I suppose I can offer my condolences to the bereaved father, and ask whether he has any notion of who would do such a thing.”
“I’d wager any money that he has more than a notion.”
“Do you think he’d turn the fellow in—testify against him?”
“No to both.” Livingstone took a sip of his coffee. “These gentry won’t set foot in a court of law unless they’re in fetters. I could sit on minor charges, but of course murder must go to the Assizes. I can’t imagine Ezra Jenkins agreeing to testify.”
“You think he’d want to settle it himself?”
“Precisely. And that’s what truly worries me. If there’s one thing this district does not need, it’s a gang of heavily armed ruffians engaging in civil war. We’ve got one man dead, and he’s one that would likely be hanged if he were caught in the act. But unless things are settled, and quickly, there will be other lives lost. Are you willing to help me?”
“I’ll do what I can,” Carlisle promised, and took his leave.
On the drive home, he found his thoughts straying not to the problem at hand, but to Brendan Townsend’s dilemma. He wondered about that young man’s rather extraordinary concern for his school friend’s welfare. His suspicion was unworthy, and he knew it; it was no business of his why a young gentleman as completely respectable as Brendan Townsend seemed might throw himself headlong into saving a tradesman’s son from his own folly—and what incredible folly it was!
Did it matter, after all, what the connection might be between the two? It was clear enough that Townsend had been repelled by the goings-on at that club. If he had committed some unfortunate error in judgement while he was at college, surely the exposure to that disgusting milieu had set him back on the right path.
And it was not Carlisle’s affair, in any event. He had known too many evil men who were self-righteous pillars of the community, too many so-called sinners who were Good Samaritans when the chips were down, to put much faith in the self-righteous. It was perhaps superstitious of him to judge someone a good man based on his consideration for his horses, but the young man had put off his own supper to hang around the hostler’s yard, making sure Romulus and Remus had warm blankets and bags of oats, and a place to rest that was out of the wind. If he was a sodomite—or had made experiments along those lines—he was a good lad nonetheless.
It was best not to dwell too much on what else he might or might not be. He was James Townsend’s brother, and he had set out to foil a blackmailer, a task many older, wiser heads might fear to attempt. Whatever Brendan’s motive, that sort of enterprise deserved assistance.
Carlisle caught sight of Brendan as he drove into the stable-yard. The young man had changed his shirt but was wearing the same clothes he’d worn the day before, and was standing at the paddock gate, giving Queenie a companionable scratch behind the ears. The Major handed the cart over to Terence, one of the stable boys, with a notice that he’d need it again in a couple of hours, and joined Brendan at the gate.
“Good morning, sir,”
Brendan said. “What a little beauty she is! What’s her breeding? She’s too tall for an Arab, but there’s something about her—”
“I don’t know anything about her bloodline,” Carlisle admitted. “Her dam was in a pen at Tattersall’s, bound for the knacker’s yard. Some damned fool had run her into the ground and given her no care at all—hooves overgrown, infection under the shoes—I bought the poor old thing with the notion of turning her out to pasture to keep my riding horse company. Matthews ragged me a bit about my charity case, until we discovered she was pregnant.”
Brendan laughed. “There’s a reward for your kindness.”
“Indeed. We dug for coal and found diamonds. We nursed her through that, she gave me the brightest little filly you could hope for—and then just as she appeared to be on the mend, the contrary creature turned up her toes and died. We had to put Queenie here to nurse on a big Shire mare that had just weaned her colt. I don’t know who her sire is, but I think her dam had strayed far above her station.”
“A midnight assignation in a livery stable?”
It was Carlisle’s turn to laugh. “Very likely. You’re right, too—she does have a look of Arab in the face and form. Only her height came from her dam, who was just an ordinary, overworked hack.”
Queenie nudged Carlisle’s shoulder, and kept doing so until he plucked a bit of clover from outside the fence and offered it to the demanding creature. “She must always receive her tribute,” he explained, “even if it is something she could easily reach for herself.”
Brendan followed his example and smiled as the mare lipped the vegetation from his outstretched hand. “She and Galahad must be cut from the same bolt. If I don’t bring him a lump of sugar or some other treat, he acts like a spoilt child.”
“I am spoiling her, I know,” Carlisle said. “But this is her first foal, so I must be forgiven the indulgence.”
“She looks the picture of health, sir—touch wood,” Brendan said, tapping the fence rail. “And you must have had a good winter.” He waved toward the broad sweep of green in the paddock, and the meadow beyond. “The grass couldn’t be better.”
Carlisle nodded. “I am hoping we’ll have no unpleasant surprises. Have you eaten breakfast?”
“Indeed I have, thank you. It was delicious.”
“Very good. I’ve paid my call on our magistrate, and it seems
I need to have a few words with some of the local people, particularly the father of the man who was killed. You are welcome to accompany me, or amuse yourself here. Come, let us return to the house; I must change into some garb suitable for attending a smuggler’s wake.”
With a last look at Queenie, Brendan fell into step beside Carlisle. “Thank you, sir. I would enjoy seeing more of the countryside, but your groom advised me to be circumspect with people hereabouts; he said the locals are suspicious of strangers.”
“That’s true enough. It would be best if you not wander off the grounds alone on your visit, lest you be taken for a Preventive spy.”
“Preventive?”
“Preventive Waterguard—you’ll also hear them called ‘riders’—the government agents assigned to locate and disrupt smuggling activity. Any stranger who appears is automatically under suspicion. I am known in the area, and no doubt by now everyone is aware that I have returned. Knowing the power of gossip, I am sure the locals have also heard about you. If you wish to come along, you’ll afford them the chance to see you for themselves.”
“Then I’ll come,” Brendan said instantly. “If anyone should ask, we might tell them I’m here on some business about horses. My brother has a black mare and has thought of trying to breed her and raise a match. It’s convenient that your stallion would be a perfect stud—in fact, I must remember to mention Nightshade to James when I return to town. And now you can honestly say we’ve discussed the idea.” He seemed about to say something more, but looked away instead.
“What is it?” Carlisle asked.
“When my brother spoke of the smuggling gangs, he said that they would often steal horses at night, to use in moving contraband, and threaten anyone who might object. How do you stop them? I cannot imagine you allow anyone to take your horses for such a purpose.”
He seemed so completely convinced of Carlisle’s virtue on the issue that the Major felt slightly guilty. “I make my compromises,” he said. “Did you notice the two donkeys grazing amongst the herd?”
Brendan nodded.
“Those are my concessions. They are hardier than any horse, and I have them stabled apart from my prime cattle. If they spend an occasional night elsewhere, I overlook it, and the use is paid with a barrel of spirits or some other commodity upon their return.”
He saw the look of disappointment on the younger man’s face. “Oh, I’m not proud of myself, Mr. Townsend, but your brother is correct—and this arrangement makes life much safer for everyone on this estate. I don’t believe the free-traders would attack me, personally, but my people and livestock might suffer. I salve my conscience by turning any ill-gotten gains over to my butler, to distribute among the household as he sees fit.”
“But how can you be sure these rogues will use only the donkeys, and leave your horses alone?”
“As for that, I employ the threat of severe bodily harm. I’ve let it be known that if they touch my horses or my household, I will kill them.” He shrugged. “I’m not especially bloodthirsty, but a few of the local fellows served in my regiment; I suspect their tales enlarge upon my exploits. All to the good if it keeps my home safe.”
Brendan shook his head. “It seems a strange way to live. Have you ever thought of selling the place and looking elsewhere?”
“If circumstances were not changing, I certainly should consider it, but I’d prefer to stay. My grandfather bought Twin Oaks before I was born, and I grew up here. It’s a prime location, only a day’s drive from London, and perfectly suited to my purposes, so it’s worth holding fast. I believe we are already seeing the beginning of the end of this business.”
“How so? Hasn’t smuggling gone on here for centuries?”
“Yes, indeed, but—how much has your brother told you about the free-traders?”
Brendan shrugged. “Little more than I’ve repeated to you. He only spoke of it in passing, because he had been part of an action against gold being smuggled into France.”
“Well, the power of the gangs has been diminishing, little by little. Compared to what went on in my grandfather’s day, Kent is considerably safer. My father once said Grandfather got a bargain on this land because he bought it during the years when the Hawkhurst gang terrorized the coast. They had created what amounted to a private fiefdom. Magistrates were either suborned or murdered, men were tortured to death—that sort of behavior cannot be allowed to stand in a civilized country. Now that the war has ended, the Preventive Waterguard has been expanded and the Navy will have ships to spare for blockading smugglers instead of the French. Add to that the army base at Chatham… soon they will have nowhere to turn.”
“My brother James says that the only way to truly stop smuggling is to set import duties at sensible levels, so there’s no profit in the free-trade.”
“Your brother is a man of good sense, but I expect it will take years to convince politicians to take such a rational course. In the meantime, we must deal with the situation as best we can, and try to learn which of these fine fellows murdered one of their number—and why.”
As they arrived at the steps of the house, Carlisle offered the services of a footman to act as valet, but Brendan assured him he could wrestle himself into fresh clothing. Having much the same attitude, Carlisle retreated to his own chambers and donned a suit of serious black. He met his guest downstairs a few minutes later, and could only approve Brendan’s attire: blue coat of superfine and dove-grey pantaloons. He was relieved that the young man was not a dandy; his modest neck-cloth was tied in a simple style and his shirt-points were not much higher than Carlisle’s own.
“I must apologize again for bringing you my troubles, sir,” Brendan said as they climbed into Carlisle’s carriage for their trip to the village. “From the way my brother described you, I thought you a gentleman of leisure. It seems you are rather more than that, and the leisure rather less.”
“Leisure is fine in its place,” Carlisle said, “but it does not wear well as an occupation. Much as I love my horses, I would be utterly bored if that were all I had to occupy my time.”
“You do not hunt?”
“Not often. I hate to see a good horse ridden badly, and the last time I had to watch a horse put down because some young idiot wanted to think himself a neck-or-nothing buck, I swore it was the last time. I enjoy the peace of a solitary ride, I manage the land with my bailiff’s help, I fence, I sometimes go to Man-ton’s to keep my hand in with a pistol, from time to time I go fishing. But those are pastimes only. I prefer to have something of genuine use to occupy my waking hours.”
Brendan nodded. “I feel the same way, sir. When I came down from Oxford, most of my friends were mad for sport or gaming, but those seem rather hollow pursuits. Others have called me dull, but to me they seem mere rattles.”
“I’ve never understood the attracting of gambling,” Carlisle said. “Whist is a fine way to pass an evening with friends, but I see no need to be constantly shuffling cards to enjoy their company. What does it benefit a man to sit for hours in a smoky room, observing the permutation of four suits? Money won is always lost again, and the hours of his life are gone for good.”
“Sir, you are preaching to the choir,” Brendan said with a smile. “In fact, you have touched on a matter that has filled my mind since I finished my studies. I have no occupation, and it seems to me that I need one.”
“It seems to me that you have one, at least for the moment,” Carlisle responded dryly. “You are playing knight-errant for your feckless friend. That is not something you can make a career of, however—nor should you, if you will forgive my presumption—but there are worse ways to spend one’s time. What did you study at Oxford?”
