Enemies at Every Turn

by David Donachie

  Gherson made to kneel down as the door closed behind them, but Codge’s outstretched hand stopped him. ‘I’ll be seeing my payment afore you cast an eye.’

  ‘And I will be seeing if you have what I came for.’

  ‘No,’ Codge insisted, head shaking as he pushed Gherson back slightly. ‘Coin first, or you won’t even get a look.’

  Gherson considered refusal, but not for long. Codge’s narrow blue eyes were hard and he was physically imposing, so a purse was produced, which was taken, weighed, then opened and the coins counted. Satisfied, Codge stepped back and indicated that Gherson should help himself, before moving to warm his hams by the dying fire.

  ‘You’re a right tight-arse with the coal, mate.’ Rummaging through wills, property deeds and powers of attorney, Gherson replied that he was not cold, which got him a snorted response. ‘Nothing beats a good warm fire, Codge always says, and Codge is never wrong.’

  Giving no reply, merely carrying on with his task, the only sound to be heard was of rustling papers as bundles were torn apart and examined, those discarded now scattered all over the floor, until finally, after an age of rummaging, he threw a last bundle down in frustration.

  ‘They’re not here.’

  ‘Since I ain’t got a clue what it is you’re looking for …’

  Gherson nearly blurted out what it was, but stopped himself just in time, scrabbling through the scattered papers to no avail to make sure he had not missed the bundle. Had he been mistaken, had the papers never been in that attorney’s office at all?

  But that flew in the face of memory: the timing of Emily Barclay’s first visit to her husband, she being followed by Devenow, and the subsequent delivery of those pages Barclay had demanded – on his instigation – the originals that identified Pearce as the writer. There was a terrible sinking feeling in Gherson’s gut; what would Ralph Barclay say when he turned up empty-handed? There was only one thing that might mollify him.

  ‘I need that money back.’

  ‘You must be dreaming,’ Codge replied.

  ‘I must have it, Codge.’

  That got no more than a hollow laugh, which told Gherson he was wasting his breath, but Devenow was downstairs and he had both the muscle and the means to force Codge to reimburse him. He stood to make for the door, surprised by the way a man bigger than him managed to move from the fireplace so swiftly to block his path.

  ‘Now where would you be headed?’

  ‘There’s no point in staying here,’ Gherson bleated.

  ‘Wait awhile.’

  ‘Why?’

  The reply did not come at once, but the look in Codge’s narrow blue eyes showed he was deep in contemplation. He was thinking, unbeknown to Gherson, that this fellow walking out empty-handed would not suit and there was no way he could think of to persuade him to take something of those papers, anything, which would not arouse his suspicions. A wasted night out would not please the Runners, so he might find that instead of being owed a favour he was in danger of the opposite and that put him at risk. It would not serve if they came in here and saw this on the floor and they would be loath to go back to Bow Street empty-handed, so he might be had up instead.

  ‘If you need an explanation,’ he said finally, ‘you ain’t got a brain.’

  Codge took Gherson’s arm and led him to the far side of the fireplace, so he was between him and any hope of escape and there he had to stay while Codge gathered up the scattered mess and fed the fire for ten whole minutes until every last piece of paper was consumed.

  What had been a dying blaze now flared as flames shot up the chimney, high enough to set the soot alight if it was in need of a sweep. Codge then took up a long heavy poker to break up any bits that were left, finally raking the mass of ashes so hard that tiny pieces of charred remnants were carried up the chimney and into the night sky, keeping at it till the fire died down through lack of material to burn.

  ‘Right, friend,’ he said, waving the poker under Gherson’s nose, ‘off you go.’

  Gherson did not move – his mind had been racing and was still unsettled as he stared at the ash-filled fireplace. If he went downstairs and came back up again with Devenow, Codge’s men were bound to follow, and besides, armed with that poker he might do for Barclay’s bully before Devenow could do for him. That would leave him at the mercy of Codge and his men, yet he had nothing to show Ralph Barclay for his thirty guineas and it was only the direction of his stare that gave him a solution.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I shall.’

  ‘And I shall rest here until you are well away.’

  The two exchanged one last look, larded with mutual mistrust, before Gherson made for the door, in his eagerness to get clear taking the stairs two at a time. Devenow heard him coming and stood up so suddenly the club dropped out from under his cloak and clattered noisily on to the floor, turning every head in the place and stopping any conversation.

  ‘Damn you, Devenow,’ Gherson spat.

  Half bent to pick up his club, Devenow straightened up quickly, his bully face furious, the cudgel held out as he towered over Gherson. ‘Have a care who you damn, turd, or you’ll feel this here club on your crown.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ Gherson gasped, ‘but we must get away from here.’

  ‘Did matters go for the captain’s wishes?’

  ‘Yes,’ Gherson blurted. ‘Of course they did. Now let us get back and give him the news.’

  He was heading for the main door before he finished speaking, leaving Devenow no choice but to follow, though he took the trouble to give the room a glare as he went. He being the size and build he was and an ugly bugger with it, few, even amongst these tough market porters, wanted to stare him down. Outside Gherson was breathing deeply, aware of the sweat cooling on his body. When Devenow exited he made to move.

  ‘Hold there, friend, we want a word with you.’

  Two men had stepped out of the shadows, burly fellows in heavy layered coats and big triangular hats.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Bow Street Runners and we have a notion that you might have about you some stolen goods.’

  Devenow’s club came up, with Gherson protesting he should desist, not that it was needed, for one of the pair before them produced a pistol and aimed it at his chest. ‘I should let that cudgel fall, fellow, for I have the right to put a ball in you if ’n I am threatened.’

  ‘Put it down, Devenow,’ Gherson said, before addressing the pistol holder. ‘You cannot mind a man seeking to protect his master.’

  It was a testimony to Devenow’s stupidity that he swore. ‘You ain’t my bloody master, Gherson.’

  ‘Happen if you don’t drop that club you’ll be his cellmate.’

  ‘Cellmate?’ Devenow barked, but he did let the club drop to his side.

  The pistol waved towards Gherson. ‘You have about your person, friend, some papers which we have grounds to believe are not yours to own, valuable documents that were stolen this very night from the offices of a Holborn attorney.’

  If Gherson’s mind had been in turmoil before it was even more so now, yet it was not so disturbed that he could not guess what had happened. Fighting to control his breath, his ability to tell a barefaced lie with a straight face came to his aid, though not without a bit of a wheeze in his voice.

  ‘There must be some mistake, I have nothing of the kind on my person.’

  ‘Then you won’t mind being searched, will you?’

  ‘In the street?’

  ‘As good a place as any, I say. Now if you will step back closer to this gaslight and this here window sill we will see what we will see. Empty your pockets.’

  ‘I shall protest to the highest authority in the land,’ Gherson cried as he began to take from his pockets everything he carried. ‘This is an outrage.’

  That got a gruff and humourless laugh. ‘So it is, friend, but the only protesting you will be doing is to the magistrate in the morning, pleading for leniency.’

  Amongst other thing
s Gherson produced a small leather purse, which the second Bow Street Runner grabbed and pocketed. Tempted to protest, Gherson stayed silent until everything he had was exposed on the sloping stone of the tavern window sill.

  ‘Now don’t you go messing us about,’ growled the pistol holder. ‘For we can turn nasty if we so desire.’

  ‘Shall I search him, Lemuel?’

  ‘Search both of them, Mill.’

  That took several minutes, for in not finding what they sought, they searched more than once. Cornelius Gherson had got his breathing under control and that was reflected in the mocking tone of his voice.

  ‘I fear some fellow has led you astray.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ demanded the one called Mill.

  ‘Seems to me you would not be doing what you’re about without some piece of deliberate malice set you to seek for what is clearly not there. You have been duped, I think.’

  ‘What do you say, Lemuel?’ asked Mill.

  ‘He should say,’ Gherson interjected, his voice now full of confidence, ‘give him back his money.’

  The response was weary. ‘Do as he says, Mill.’

  ‘You are Bow Street Runners, you say, and your names are Mill and Lemuel, which will do to identify you to authority. Do not be surprised to see in the first post of the morrow, then, in the hand of the magistrate, a written complaint bearing your names and the accusation that you were prepared not only to arrest an innocent man but steal my property, and I have my companion here as witness. Perhaps, gentlemen, it will be you who is seeking leniency. Devenow, pick up your cudgel and follow me.’

  It was clear by the dropping shoulders there was no option but to let them depart and Gherson could almost feel the hatred in their eyes as they bored into his back.

  ‘How the fuck did you pull that off?’ Devenow whispered.

  ‘Wait and see,’ Gherson snapped, now so elated he felt he could be sharp even with the bully.

  Behind them a whistle blew and heavy-coated men seemed to come from every doorway, making for the entrance to the White Swan, to join Lemuel and Mill, and gathered, they went in at a hustle. Gherson did not see, but he could imagine what came next, the rush up the stairs to confront the man who had sought to betray him. Whatever had happened – if he had been mistaken, or those court martial papers had been removed, and it made no odds how – he was safe, with only one more hurdle to overcome.

  When the Bow Street Runners burst in on Codge, they found him with his back to the fire, drinking the remains of Gherson’s wine, and were greeted with a wide grin.

  ‘Welcome, friends.’

  ‘Welcome, you snake,’ Lemuel spat. ‘You’ll say welcome to a prison hulk when we is finished with you.’

  Showing mock surprise, Codge raised his eyebrows. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘Lemuel,’ Mill said softly, his eyes having surveyed the room, ‘there ain’t no papers here either.’

  ‘Where are they, Codge, two whole sacks full?’

  ‘Two whole sacks full of what?’

  ‘You know of what I speak.’

  ‘Step aside, Codge,’ said Mill, sniffing the air, a command that was obeyed, though with no great haste. Mill looked into the fire, still full of blackened paper ash. ‘Best cast an eye over this, Lemuel.’

  That the other Runner did, standing over the near dead coals and broken ash, his head slowly shaking. Then he ordered everyone but Mill to leave the room and wait outside. Once they had gone he addressed Codge, his voice a hiss.

  ‘I ain’t standing for this.’

  ‘For what?’ Codge asked, his eyes twinkling.

  ‘If you think I am going back to Sir Richard empty of hand you have got another think coming. I will take you in anyway and think of something to lay against you that will satisfy our employer.’

  ‘Take me in – so that was the plan?’ Lemuel’s face went blank; he had said too much, indeed he had virtually told Codge what the idea had been and who had set it in motion. ‘Can’t have you goin’ in empty-handed, can we now?’

  ‘No,’ Lemuel spat.

  ‘But you can’t take me in, can you, for you have no evidence that I have done anything and I would walk out a free man of the morning. Seems to me, and not for the first time, that Old Codge has to come to your aid. There be a pair of lads down in the taproom with empty sacks by them. If you was to go through their pockets you might find that they had an item or two that was not their own, stuff that could be identified as being the property of a certain lawyer and taken from his premises illegal. If ’n you don’t mind, I’ll stay in this here room and wait till you are done.’

  ‘We have spent a night in the cold without so much as a farthing to show,’ protested Mill.

  Codge pulled out the purse given him by Gherson, now a quarter the weight it had been originally, for he had removed fifteen guineas, then held it out. ‘That is a crying shame. Why not take this for your trouble?’

  Codge was grinning now and not in the least worried about handing over the money; he had a very good idea where he would be able to not only replace it but acquire more, much more. After a decent interval he left the White Swan, having already composed in his head the note he would send to Alderman Denby Carruthers, wondering, now that he had lost two of his drinking companions to the Runners, who to send with the message.

  Not that it would be a problem; there was always some fellow who wanted to be his best friend.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘Burnt them? Ralph Barclay demanded. ‘Why did you do that?’

  Gherson had been rehearsing the words he needed to say all the way back to Brown’s Hotel, which at night had meant skirting the closed city gates as well as thinking up the justification, so he replied with confidence. That it was a lie, that it might be exposed as such in the future, would have to be dealt with at the time, for right at this moment necessity was the mother of invention.

  ‘You must understand, sir,’ Gherson said, using the superior tone that mightily irritated the captain, ‘that the people I deal with are not the type in which to repose any trust at all and Devenow will tell you how close we came to being apprehended.’

  ‘Within a whisker, Your Honour,’ the bully added, not fully in the picture of what had been intended or the errand on which they had been engaged.

  ‘My concern was that there should be no evidence at all, sir, for that would serve your purpose and it was only the slimy nature of my felon that alerted me to what might happen. Imagine if I had not acted as I did, if the Bow Street Runners had found those papers upon my person.’

  Slow realisation appeared on Devenow’s face. ‘So that’s what we were about?’

  ‘What the devil were thief-takers doing there, man?’ Barclay snapped.

  ‘My hired felon tipped them off, no doubt for a fee as a reward for my arrest. I would have been charged with stealing from Studdert, the court martial papers would have been in the hands of the Bow Street magistrate, which in turn, given the contents, would have implicated you and could have led to your arrest.’

  ‘I am sure you would have kept me out of it, Gherson,’ Barclay replied, not that he believed it; Gherson did not respond to correct that impression on the very good grounds that to save himself he would have dobbed in his own mother.

  ‘As it is, sir, they are now black ash.’

  Ralph Barclay nodded slowly and spoke with what he thought was sincerity. ‘You have done well.’

  ‘And your wife, sir, do you wish me to communicate with her the change in her circumstances?’

  ‘No! I shall do that. Prepare to coach down to Chatham. Semele is near ready for sea as we speak. I will write to my wife this instant and tell her what she must do, on pain of destitution if she does not conform to my wishes.’

  The decision to vacate Emily Barclay’s room at the house of Mrs Fletcher was not a difficult one to make; with the Tolland gang knowing that address it could never be secure, and if they had backed away the previous night there was
no knowing how long that would last. Michael was the one charged with the duty, a letter provided for the landlady plus an extra month’s payment for rent, this while Emily began her search for new accommodation; she was unwilling to stay at Nerot’s given it would be bound to cause gossip, she and Pearce being constantly in one another’s company.

  Michael asked, when hiring a conveyance to carry the fetched possessions, that the carter provide enough men to move the contents of a house, there being safety in numbers, and if they wondered at merely being asked to shift a pair of hastily packed trunks instead of sideboards and beds, the Irishman did not bother to enlighten them. Nor did he explain why he had in his waistband a pistol and the need to keep a sharp eye out for trouble.

  While they were there a sealed letter arrived addressed to Mrs Barclay, not that Michael would have known had he not been told, he being unable to read, nor did he know that the wax seal was that of Brown’s Hotel. He just stuck it in his pocket to be taken back to Nerot’s with everything else, pleased to have seen no sign of the smuggling gang.

  John Pearce had received a note from Henry Dundas with his breakfast to say that a ship had been found, a hired armed cutter called HMS Larcher, presently laying at Buckler’s Hard in the Beaulieu River having a new mainmast fitted. He was required to call at the Admiralty where he would be given his commission to take temporary command of her, her present captain being sick and requiring to come ashore for treatment. As a fully manned vessel it had everything needed to engage of the suggested mission immediately he could get aboard.

  A chest containing gold coins to the value of a thousand pounds would be sent down to Buckler’s Hard under guard to await his arrival and he would be required to sign for the sum and account for its use on return, the balance to be paid back into the Government coffers.