Elizabeth took one glove and turned the cuff. A satin lining of pale blue had been snipped open, revealing a secret hiding-place.
'And inside she found what? Nothing?' Drinkwater asked.
'On the contrary. She found this.' Elizabeth now drew from her breast, with something of the air of a conjuror, a tightly folded and sealed letter. 'It has your name upon it.'
Drinkwater took the letter and turned it over. It bore his name without title in a hand he did not know.
'In view of what you had told us both when Hortense was being laid out, Susan came to see me and made a clean breast of the matter. I made light of it, thanked her, and told her that of course she might have what she wished of Madame Santhonax's effects. I promised her the gloves when I returned. I brought them merely to make you understand why the letter took so long to find. I suppose it was fortunate that we did find it... Nathaniel, are you quite well?'
Drinkwater looked up. He had broken the seal of the letter and had read its contents. A cold fear clutched at his heart. On his face, now grown pale, beads of perspiration stood out. Before he had gathered his wits, he murmured, 'My God Bess, this could ruin us.'
Elizabeth frowned. 'What do you mean?' she asked, both her husband's fright and his ghastly expression alarming her. Drinkwater laid the letter down on the shelf formed by a stringer and reached inside a locker for a bottle and two glasses. Elizabeth picked up the letter and read it. Drinkwater filled the glasses and turned to hold one out to Elizabeth. 'I don't understand,' she said, looking up from the letter. 'What is there in this to so alarm you?'
'She would have explained, of course,' Drinkwater said, half to himself, 'that was her purpose in coming and in such circumstances.' He drank deeply, adding, 'the damned fool.'
'That is hardly fair ...'
'No, no,' he said, shaking his head, 'not her. Him.''
'Him? What him? Nathaniel, if you are going to speak of ruin, please don't use riddles ...'
Drinkwater shook himself out of his introspection. 'I am sorry, Bess, it's something of a shock. This', he took the letter gently from her unresisting hand and folded it, 'is from my brother Edward. You know a little of his circumstances. He left this country many, many years ago and, after some time, obtained a position along with many other foreigners in the Russian Army. I had some dealings with him during my service in the Baltic ...'
'Was he connected in some way with Lord Dungarth's Secret Department?'
'Yes, loosely. Certainly he sought to gain credit by assisting me and, by implication, Lord Dungarth. I suppose, from what this says,' he tapped the letter, 'he reached Paris when the Allies occupied the city last year. I would judge that there he met the ever-resourceful Hortense, and at some stage in what I deduce to be an affaire, he may have revealed his true identity' Drinkwater paused. 'Indeed,' he went on with a profound sigh, looking at Elizabeth directly, 'it seems only too probable that he revealed everything.'
'And that everything constitutes our ruin, I assume?'
'Yes.'
'But why?'
'Because when he left this country, he was wanted for murder.'
'Murder?' Elizabeth faltered, her face draining of colour and an edge entering her voice. 'And you, of course, being you, helped him escape.'
'I was a damned fool...'
'But she is dead and this letter ... I wish I had never opened the glove, but I thought it something important, that you should know of it and that ...' Elizabeth faltered, and then added with sudden conviction, 'It doesn't matter though, does it? The letter asks that you should go to Calais to meet the person who signs himself "O". You have merely to ignore it, to pretend it never arrived ... I mean, how are you so sure that it is from Edward?' And with that Elizabeth snatched the offending paper back and tore it swiftly into pieces. Drinkwater looked on with a chillingly wan smile.
'But it did arrive, Bess. You know it, I know it, Susan Tregembo knows it. Even Frey must be aware that something is up.'
'But you don't know it was from Edward. You are guessing, aren't you?' Elizabeth pressed. 'It is signed O. Of what significance is that?'
'Only that Edward's assumed name, the name by which Lord Dungarth knew him, was Ostroff. In Russian it means island, a small piece of land surrounded by a hostile sea.'
'You are certain?'
'I am as certain as I can be. In fact I think I recognize the hand now', he added, 'from the way my, no, our surname is formed.'
There was a brief silence as they regarded the fragments of paper littering the cabin deck. It was broken by Elizabeth. 'Well, you are surely not suggesting you go to Calais?'
'If my brother is in Calais now, then he is stranded there, a Russian officer in a French port which has become Bonapartist again. He might be murdered there, which would be retribution of a sort, but otherwise there is nothing to stop him crossing the Channel by hiring a boat or bribing a fisherman. If I can at least try to reach him, I may discover his intentions. Perhaps, after all these years, we have nothing to fear, but I cannot live the rest of my life knowing that I abandoned my brother, feckless devil though he is and possessing as he does the power to ruin us all.'
'And what shall you do if you do meet him? Shoot him?' Drinkwater laughed. 'Would you prefer I drowned him?' 'I wish to God you had never had anything to do with him ...' 'And what would you have done when your own kith and kin came to you in the extremity of desperation ...?'
Elizabeth bit her lower lip and shook her head. 'I don't know. But murder...'
'Well, I am not exculpating him,' Drinkwater said with a sigh, 'but he caught his mistress in bed with another man. You yourself found the merest suspicion of such conduct betwixt Hortense and myself a thing deeply disturbing. An intemperate man like Ned, in the high, indulgent passion of his youth, was scarcely to be expected to react other than as he did.'
Elizabeth considered the matter for a moment, then it seemed that she braced herself as she made up her mind. 'You shall go to Calais. And I shall come with you.'
'No. I shall go to Calais,' Drinkwater said with sudden decisiveness. 'Edward, through Hortense, knows where we reside. You shall go home and stand guard. If Edward comes to you, send Vane to leave word at the Three Cups in Harwich. The letter shall state that the mare has produced a fine black foal and you thought I should know. Remember that. Occupy Ned, and I will return as soon as possible. Mercifully, I can leave Frey in command and absent myself without occasioning any trouble. My only concern at this moment is to detach myself from this place. Come, we must go ashore at once. Take those damned gloves to Susan. I wish her joy of them. Let us lay this confounded ghost once and for all!' And taking his wife in his arms, he crushed her to him. 'Now, put on a happy smile and look as if you are pleased to see me while I escort you ashore.'
Having seen Elizabeth off, with a smiling Billie Cue lashed happily upon the box, Drinkwater ducked into the Three Cups. He had met Lieutenant Sparkman in its taproom some eighteen months before when Sparkman, an inspector of Sea-Fencibles, had reported the arrival of a strange Neapolitan officer on the Essex coast and lit a train of powder that had led to the fight with the Odin and the death of James Quilhampton in the Vikkenfiord. A woman bobbed in front of him, her stays open to reveal her breasts, offering him a drink. He did not remember Annie Davis, though she had delighted Sparkman all those months ago and, more recently, had put a smile on Billie Cue's face, though it had cost him a small fortune. Now Drinkwater swept past her and made for the back room where Captain Scanderbeg held court.
'Ah, Captain Drinkwater, pray do sit down.' Scanderbeg sat back in his chair and lifted a pewter mug interrogatively. A drink?' Drinkwater shook his head. 'Thank you, no.' Scanderbeg was in his shirt-sleeves, the table before him littered with papers, some of which had found their way unintentionally to the floor while others were more purposefully arranged in a wicker basket at his feet next to which was coiled a small spaniel. A ravaged quill pen stuck out of a large ink-well and a pen-knife lay beside them. 'I have
ordered a small draft of men for you ...' 'So I hear and thank you for that, but it is not the cause of my visit. Captain Scanderbeg, I can see you are a busy and, if I mistake not, a harassed man ...'
'By God, sir, I have never known such a thing as this damnable embarkation. I was Regulating Captain here a year ago and was resurrected for the present emergency in this blasted incarnation.' Scanderbeg tapped his breast as though this revealed his change of status. 'I tell you, sir, governments know not what they do when they declare war with such alacrity! Would you believe that I had a pipsqueak captain of light dragoons in here this very forenoon complaining, complaining mark you, that my men, the seamen that is, were taking insufficient care of his blasted horses. When I asked to which ship they were assigned, the Adventure, Philarea or Salus, he said he did not know, so I asked which troop he meant, the first or second and so forth, that I might divine the men responsible. He said, "Oh, I don't mean troop horses, damme! I mean me own chargers, sir!" I asked how many of these festering chargers he had and he said four, two of which had cost him four hundred guineas. Four hundred guineas! God, sir, I hope the poxy French shoot the fucking things out from under his arse! I told him that if he had nothing better to do than complain, he had time enough to see to the matter himself and that a couple of hundred guineas to the tars embarking the cavalry mounts would see each of his damned chargers piggy-backed out on the backs of a score of mermaids! Bloody popinjay!'
Drinkwater could not help but grin at Scanderbeg's predicament, despite the urgency of his business, and wondered if the horse he had seen in the water earlier had been one of the importunate young dragoon officer's mounts.
'He threatened to report me to General Vandeleur,' Scanderbeg railled on, 'and I said he might do as he damned well pleased. When the regiment had all embarked, I discovered their field forge and farriers still sitting in the horse lines out by the barrack field. No one had passed word to them to mount up, or whatever the festering cavalry do when they want to move off! I tell you, Drinkwater, the French will make mince-meat of 'em! Thank God for the North Sea and the Channel. Aye and the navy!' And with that Scanderbeg tossed off the contents of his pot and slammed it down on the table. He shook his head and blew through his cheeks. 'I beg your pardon, Captain, but ...' he shrugged. 'What can I do for you?'
'I think, Captain Scanderbeg, 'tis more what I can do for you. I can relieve you of one anxiety at least.'
'That, sir, would be the first word of co-operation I have received a sennight since!' Scanderbeg brightened visibly. 'You are going to tell me you have some orders.'
'Indeed I am. How did you know?'
'Too long in the tooth, Captain Drinkwater, not to know that I would be the last to be told. Well?'
'I am pushing over to reconnoitre Calais and Boulogne. If the French have any of their corvettes ready for sea, they might wreak havoc among our transports...'
'By heaven, sir, you're right! Well, well, go to it, sir, and if there is anything further you require, I shall do my limited best.'
'Thank you. I hope your post don't become too irksome.'
'I could almost wish for a frigate with her bowsprit struck over the Black Rocks,' Scanderbeg riposted with a smile, and Drinkwater left with the impression of an indomitable man who would, despite the odds and to the discomfiture of many, get the army embarked in time.
Walking back down Church Street he encountered a troop of horse artillery. The five field-guns and single howitzer gleamed in the sunshine. The bay horses that pulled them were handsome in their harness, and the soldiers that rode postillion were sitting chatting, while the young officer commanding them, having made a few remarks to his bombardier, turned in his saddle, caught sight of Drinkwater and saluted.
'Good day, sir. Captain Mercer of G Troop Royal Horse Artillery, at your service. Are you perhaps the naval commissioner?'
Drinkwater returned the salute and shook his head. 'Alas, no, Captain Mercer, the officer you want is Captain Scanderbeg. He is quartered next to the church in the Three Cups.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'Captain Mercer ...'
'Sir?'
'Make sure you don't leave anything behind ... the odd gun or limber, for example. I fancy your colleagues in the light cavalry have sorely tried his patience this morning.'
Mercer grinned. 'What would you expect of Vandeleur's brigade, sir?' he remarked.
'I have no idea, Captain, but a little more than they appear capable of, it seems. I just hope the French are as accommodating as Captain Scanderbeg. Good day to you.'
Drinkwater passed on, quite ridiculously light-headed. He had Scanderbeg to thank for bringing the problem of Edward into a more reasonable perspective. Moreover, he had released himself from any obligation to the commissioner. And he would be going to sea. Suddenly that, at least, was compensation enough. And with the thought buoying him up, he hailed the boat.
CHAPTER 8
Calais
April 1815
The following morning proved foggy and while it delayed the transports from leaving port, the hired cutter Kestrel lay wallowing damply off the Head of the Falls, having slipped out of Harwich the previous evening. Hardly had Frey's men lugged the stores and arms chest aboard than Drinkwater passed orders to sail. Once her mainsail was hoisted, and provided the weather remained reasonable, she was an easy vessel to handle. Though Drinkwater and Frey stood watch and watch, it was possible to divide their crew into idlers, available throughout the daytime, with the pressed men in three watches. It was scarcely a punishing regime and, superficially at least, bore a resemblance to the yachting excursions Drinkwater and Frey had indolently planned during their winter evenings together.
Drinkwater's notion of reconnoitring Calais was a sound one; indeed he expected to encounter at least a gun-brig from Chatham keeping an eye on the port. More difficult would be penetrating the place, not an easy task for a British naval officer during so uncertain a political period, but the greatest problem he confronted lay in the means by which he might locate Edward. The letter had given him few clues, and Elizabeth had screwed it up and torn it into so many pieces that his attempt to reconstruct it proved futile. It did not matter. It was intended merely to validate Hortense's appearance. He recalled it as a simple enough message, to the effect that an old friend who was now very intimate with the bearer wished to be embarked at Calais and looked forward to renewing a close acquaintanceship. There were key words containing a hidden significance which Drinkwater, with his eye for such things combined with a conscientious anxiety, had soon noticed. The old friend gave away a little, but in truth there were few now left in the world who could claim an 'old' friendship with him. Besides, this relationship was emphasized by the words close acquaintanceship. As to intimacy with the bearer, Drinkwater did not need to read between the lines there: Hortense, though mutilated by boiling lead, had still been beautiful, and Ned was past fifty. The only real mystery was how the two had met, and he had no way of divining that fact without asking directly. Of one thing he was certain, Hortense had risked a great deal in her attempt to contact her benefactor. He recalled Lord Dungarth's prophetic remark when they had let her go years earlier, that they would save themselves a deal of trouble if they had shot her. Well, well, Drinkwater mused, they had not shot her, and their combined infirmity of purpose had led to his present predicament. The fact that brother Edward had become Hortense's lover was an exquisitely painful irony, he thought, turning his mind back to the problem of contacting a fugitive Russian officer in a hostile port.
It did not suit Drinkwater to leave matters to fall out as they might. That something would turn up was a maxim that in his experience rarely functioned, except for other people, of course. It seemed he had but two choices, to do the thing himself or to get someone else to do it, and neither recommended itself. He did not wish to go ashore and if he did, what could he achieve? He could hardly wander round Calais in his uniform and to do so in his civilian garb invited arrest and a firing sq
uad. And even if he were to risk going ashore, he could scarcely knock on doors and ask, in his barbaric and imperfect French, if a Russian officer who was really an Englishman had been seen hanging about. The whole matter bordered on the preposterous!
The alternative was to contact a fishing-boat. French fishermen were no different from their English counterparts and would do anything for money. Fortunately he had sufficient funds with him and could buy access to the network of gossip that would exist among the drinking dens, cafés and bistros that these men frequented when ashore. The fishermen of the Dover Strait, irrespective of nationality, had been carrying odd persons back and forth across the Channel for a generation, and they would almost certainly know of anyone who was seeking a passage. Besides, by now Edward might well have bitten the bullet and arranged his own passage. In fact, it was more likely that he would turn up at Gantley Hall to alarm Elizabeth than that he would be standing obligingly on the beach at Calais. Too long a period had elapsed since Hortense had left in her lugger for an impatient man such as Edward to remain long in idle impotence.
For the whole of 10 April, Kestrel lay inert, washing up and down in the tide, her decks wet with the condensation that dripped from her sails and rigging. Drinkwater took the opportunity of calling his tiny crew aft. He had appointed his own two paid hands as boatswain and carpenter, and they had some notion of who they were working for, but the half-dozen pressed men had no idea.
'My lads,' Drinkwater began, looking over the smallest crew he had ever commanded, smaller even than that allocated to him when, as a midshipman, he had been sent away as prize-master of the Yankee schooner Algonquin. 'For those of you just shipped aboard, I am Captain Nathaniel Drinkwater. I am the owner of this cutter and she is on charter to the Government for special service. She is commanded by Lieutenant Frey here and he is acting under my orders, both of us being in His Majesty's service. Our orders in the first instance require us to take a look into Calais. Much will depend thereafter on what we discover. What I shall rely upon you for is a prompt and willing response to orders. That is all.'
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