Harry’s heart chilled as he recognised the voice that replied, so high and girlish.
“And I thank you kindly. It was mere luck you found me, for I was to sail on the ebb. So this is Ludlow.”
“The very same.”
“Then all I require now is some help to dispose of him.”
It wasn’t Temple who replied, but Quested, and there was a definite hint of tension in his voice. “I’ve no mind to bring trouble on my head. I think the rest is down to you.”
“I didn’t request a present, mate,” he squealed. “I told you that I wanted redress. I’ve no mind to carry this bastard down to the beach, scratching and biting, for all this hellhole to see. Anyway, from what I’ve heard, you’ve got things set up a treat. A nice cellar all awaitin’, from that bone you threw the excise. Don’t tell me you’re afeart. What’s one more buried body to the Smuggler King?”
The high voice turned to an ugly cackle and repeated the expression, which he clearly found amusing. “Smuggler King!”
Harry tried to turn round, to open his eyes to see. He was denied the former by the hands that held him, the latter because he couldn’t bear the stinging sensation of the alcohol. There was a pause, which in his blinded state seemed to last for an eternity. Finally Quested spoke, his voice even. “It makes no odds. Better safe than sorry.”
“Let’s use the tunnels,” the other man piped.
“That’ll cost,” said Quested.
“No!”
Quested spoke like a man who had all the good cards, including those that should have belonged to the gang leader. “Take it or leave it, friend.”
There was a metallic crash, like the sound of a purse being dropped. Harry heard the sound of a trap being opened, then he heard that voice again, as high pitched and merciless now as it had been when he’d first heard it in the middle of the Channel.
“You were clever in that damned jolly-boat, mate, never mind your pretty trick with the gravel. My men have been picking bits of stone out of themselves ever since. But it’s time to pay the piper. You’re about to learn that stealing another’s cargo is a death sentence. And just as Bertles died special, so will you, to serve as a lesson to all. With what you’ve got comin’ your way, you’ll wish I’d tipped you into the drink.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
HARRY COULD feel the air change as he was unceremoniously dropped through a flap in the floor, crumpling in a heap as he landed. It was cool and smoke free, in stark contrast to the air in the tap-room above. The thud of feet on the stone floor told him that several of his captors had followed him through the hatch. He was roughly hauled to his feet and pushed into a stumbling gait. At that point he risked opening his lids a fraction. Several of the men around him had lanterns, which bounced off the chalk walls to emit a glowing light. His eyes stung as the brandy mixed with the cool air, but he could see well enough, through the slits he’d managed, that he was in a long narrow tunnel.
“You must think I was born yesterday, Ludlow,” said Quested, who stood just behind him, “coming in ’ere with your cock-an’-bull tales, as if you didn’t know what Bertles was about.”
Harry couldn’t reply, but he shook his head in a vain attempt to let Quested know that he hadn’t the faintest idea what he was saying. The other man continued, his angry voice echoing off the walls.
“He didn’t have two ha’pennies to rub together one day, then he’s walking out to purchase a ship.”
Harry’s eyes were wide open now, though still smarting. They had just entered a large chamber that appeared to have at least a dozen exits. The spaces between the feeder tunnels were lined with wooden caskets and piled-up barrels of spirits; great bales wrapped in sackcloth sat on top. The air was dry, without that smell of damp that usually pervaded a cellar, which argued a proper supply of air. There was nothing temporary or gimcrack about this. These tunnels were well dug, properly ventilated, and obviously led to any number of entrances and exits, so that the smugglers, when taking the contraband inland, had a varied choice of places to exit above ground. Too many for an overstretched Preventative Service to watch.
Harry was spun round to face Quested. “You and that damn fool Bertles nearly started a smugglers’ war. An’ then what do you do, you slimy bastard? You go an’ suck up to the Preventatives, and take a hand in the beating of young Digby Cavell.”
Harry shook his head violently, which made Quested even angrier, and he swiped him around the head with a clenched fist. It hurt, but Harry knew that the batman had put little effort in to the blow. He looked like the type of brute who had the kind of punch that would fell a bull.
“Are we about to stand round here all day?”
For the first time Harry realised that the smuggler with the choirboy’s voice was with them. He tried to look past Temple, to get a view of the real source of his troubles, but he was looking down one of the tunnels, with his back to the men around Harry. Quested glanced over his shoulder too, and kept talking, almost with a spirit of defiance.
“Bold as brass, you was, marching along the street like God Almighty. Showin’ away like them other useless sods. There was no cause to beat the lad, unless you paid him. He didn’t know nowt. An’ then you come and play the innocent with me. Just who in the name of hell do you think you are, an’ just how stupid do you take us to be?”
Harry shook his head again, but wearily, for he knew that even ungagged words would fail to deflect Quested’s anger.
“You financed Bertles and plotted with him to pinch another’s goods. Well, he’s paid his price for thieving, an’ now it’s your turn to pay yours.”
Harry’s mind was caught between his impending fate and the false impression everyone seemed to have that he was Bertles’s employer. The face was an inch from his watering eyes now, still ablaze with anger. He could feel Quested’s spittle cooling on his face. But it was the other smuggler, hidden behind Quested’s bulk, who pronounced his fate, the piping voice made more eerie by the resonance of the tunnel walls.
“You know how Bertles died, I’m told. I dare say you think that was horrible. But you’ll die worse. How long will he last, Quested?”
Harry had to shut his eyes. The batman’s breath brushed over his cheeks as he replied. “It ain’t been proved, but they reckon a well-fed man can last two or three days buried in shingle. They say he can even hear the rats tunnelling through the stones to get at him. Perhaps, tied hand and foot, they’ll start to eat him before he’s gone.”
The other smuggler let out a squeal of laughter. “I hope so, Ludlow, for by the trouble you’ve caused me, teaming up with that damned arse Bertles, you damn well deserve it. An’ when they’ve done the maggots’ll come along and pick you clean.”
The smuggler had no mercy in his voice, at all. It was the same as two nights ago, in the Channel. He was enjoying himself. Harry, fighting to avoid panic, latched on to the mention of two days. He was trying frantically to think who would miss him. Latham might, but then the captain had his own concerns. He would assume that Harry had either returned home or decided to spend the night at somewhere like Portobello Court. Arthur wouldn’t even begin to worry for another 24 hours, and given Harry’s wandering nature perhaps not then. The man he needed most, Pender, was away in Portsmouth collecting his family.
“An’ the beauty is, Ludlow, you’ll never be found. At least not until someone decides to pull down the houses fronting the beach. And those who seal you up will never even know. A fittin’ end to you, I say, since Cephas Quested tells me you’re so well in with the Preventatives.”
The laugh that followed, like that of a boy whose voice was yet to break, had an ethereal doom-laden quality as it bounced off the chalk walls. “Enough talk. I want to get out of this damn place.”
Harry had all the pieces of the puzzle now. In his mind he heard Braine telling his tale again, just as he recalled the orders he’d given to his men as they left Sandown Castle to take the Cavell boy to the magistrate. As they grabbed him an
d forced him down one of the feeder tunnels, he managed to get one arm free and turned to kick his captors. The strength that he ascribed to Quested was borne out when the batman fetched him a clout that lifted him bodily off his feet, before sending him crashing to the ground in a heap.
“The pity is, Ludlow,” he said, straddling his inert body, “that we don’t have time to make sport of you. If I had my way you’d be goin’ into that cellar without a single bone whole.”
He turned to one of the other men, who was holding a lantern aloft. “Go up into the street and make sure it’s clear. We don’t want those Preventative bastards coming back from their dinner too early.”
The man hurried off as they pulled Harry back to his feet. His head was ringing from the blow, making his movements sluggish. Quested’s foot caught him in the rear. “Move on, Ludlow, or I’ll break your legs and have you carried.”
The man who’d gone ahead with the lantern came hurrying back down the tunnel. “Coast’s clear, Cephas. The pigs are at their trough. I’ve slipped a nipper a penny to keep his eye on them.”
Only one of Braine’s men saw him enter the Ship Inn, but his reaction was enough to tell his companion who had arrived. Both dropped their tankards with a thud, as though the idea of taking a sip of ale was the last thing they would want. But their attempts at innocence were wasted on Braine. His voice cracked across the crowded room, chilling more than their blood.
“You no-good lazy buggers. I told you to do that job right off, and here you are teasing your gullet with beer.”
The two men were up and halfway to the door before he’d finished his sentence, their heads down like badly behaved children expecting a blow. No one remarked on the shaver who slipped out of the door just ahead of them.
“Here,” said a gruff voice from behind the hatch, “who’s paying for their victuals?”
Braine raised his angry glare towards the voice. Then he lifted Sniff and pointed his snout towards the hatch. “Do you want me and my dog to have a look in your cellar, mate? I seem to recall that you’re only licensed to dispense ale on these premises.”
There was silence, not only from behind the hatch and from the patrons in the tavern. Few had a cellar, larder, or loft that didn’t contain unexcised spirits.
“That’s right,” barked Braine at the owner, “you stow your whistle, an’ just accept that some of the funds you’ve dunned out of King George are being repayed.”
It didn’t bother Braine at all that everyone in the room, man and woman, cursed him for a no-good bastard as he left. His men were waiting for him in the street, an act which earned them another angry rebuke. They rushed ahead, making for Farrier Street and the seat of their night-time labours. Braine hoisted Sniff a little higher and strode after them.
The youngster shoved his head through the flap into the cellar. Quested, who was standing closest to it, raised his club in alarm. But he dropped it when one of his companions recognised the nipper they’d set to watch over the Preventatives.
“Get a move on, lads,” said the child urgently, gesturing to the men who stood, with shovel in their hands, before the great pile of shingle that filled half the cellar. “Braine has booted them out of the Ship. They’ll be here in no time.”
The voice was faint in Harry’s ears, too faint to make out the words. But the crunching sound of more shingle being piled on him had stopped. He lay, in darkness, aware that the only thing that prevented the small stones filling his mouth was the gag. The cloth was fairly thick, but he had to breathe through it now, because the shingle blocked his nostrils. The metallic clang as the shovels were thrown down was as clear as the vibrations of pounding feet coming to him through the stone floor where he lay. His eyes, still smarting, were closed because they had to be. Even if they’d been open he would have had nothing but darkness. Harry was filled with despair, filled with the knowledge that finally his sanguine temperament and his belief in his own ability were going to cost him his life.
He’d watched them dig his grave, making a dent in the work that Braine’s men had already done to carve out a hole for him. He fought them, of course, but his feeble attempts against such odds had provoked amusement rather than annoyance. Getting him on to the floor had been a struggle, and keeping him there while they piled the first heaps of stones on had put a stopper on their grim humour. But it returned as the shingles covered his body first, the weight of his tomb pressing down on his legs and chest, leaving his face till last. Cephas Quested came forward then and took the shovel for the last act of Harry’s life. But he crouched to say goodbye.
“Happen there’ll be a warm bed going spare, with you gone,” Quested gave him a cruel grin. “I will say it’s a long time since I came across someone not afeared of me. I hardly ever gets to have proper bouts these days.”
Quested looked at the fluid that was still streaming out of Harry’s reddened eyes. He put forward a finger and touched it as it ran down his cheek. His face took on a look of mock horror, the same as the voice he used to call to the men behind him.
“Look at this, lads, poor bastard’s blubbing.”
That voice barked out its impatience again, so high that Harry was sure he could feel it bounce off the floor.
“Bury the sod, for the sake of Christ, so’s I can go about my business. I’ve got near two hundred tons of cargo waitin’ for me.”
Quested stood up and raised the shovel. For a moment Harry wondered if he was about to bash his brains out. But it swung down into the shingle beside his head, and he had to close his eyes in a hurry as the heap of stones hit him painfully in the face.
The two men struggled back from the beach with their barrows full of shingle, tipping them in through the cellar door to add to the pile already there. Braine stood in the road, with Sniff in his arms, watching them.
“Best get down and shift some o’ that further in,” he said.
The two men dropped down into the cellar. Braine put Sniff down and followed them. The dog, not happy to remain above his master’s head, jumped down on to the floor and immediately raised his leg to mark the territory.
Braine lifted a lantern and peered around what was left of the room with exaggerated care. The two men, plying their shovels, looked at each other with that air of mute impatience subordinates use when their betters can’t see their faces. Braine then tapped and poked the shingle before finally moving away to let them work. Sniff was around the diggers’ feet, getting in the way as he always did. One of the men made a mock swipe at the dog. But he was careful that Braine didn’t see. The man was fussy about his animal.
The crunching sound of stones being added to his tomb was faint in Harry’s ears. Hope had faded. The gag was too thick for any sound to pass. There could be no rescue, or at least none that would come in time. The cold from the damp shingle was chilling him to the marrow and he could smell the salt water that clung to it. He doubted he would live long. In some respects it was like being immersed in cold water. He’d known a man die in minutes after going overboard in northern seas. He prayed that he would be gone before anything started to feed on his body.
He couldn’t actually stiffen his body for the weight of the stones on top of him. But every muscle contracted as he heard the first of the scrabbling sounds. He tried to pretend he was imagining it, but with every nerve stretched to breaking point it was difficult. He also fought hard to put another interpretation on what sounded distinctly like small claws scraping at stones.
Harry hated rats. He’d never loved them as a youngster on his father’s ship, but he’d learned to live with them and even, in his later life as a young midshipman, to fatten them up for eating. But ever since he’d had to take them on with his bare teeth, they induced a form of terror in him. Easy to fight during daylight, it was often the stuff of his nocturnal dreams, and he’d often woken in a streaming sweat at the thought of them feeding on his flesh.
Now they would smell him, even through the salty stones that covered his body. Their sensi
tive snouts would pick up the heat from his body to find him. Animals that could gnaw their way through an oak plank in search of food would not be deterred by loose shingle. He could hear the scrabbling getting louder and louder as they came closer. He prayed to a God he rarely acknowledged to let him die, for he could imagine the rodents starting on his exposed face, rather than his body, covered in clothes.
The first scratch, as a claw scraped his face, just below his eye, heightened the terror to a point where Harry felt he was about to burst out of his skin. Another scratch, firmer this time, as the rodent sought to clear the stones away from his face before it could feed. He waited, his breath trapped in his lungs, for the first of the teeth to sink into his face. The tears that came out of his eyes now had nothing to do with brandy. He was crying from sheer panic.
The first cold touch of the nose made him stretch, despite the weight that covered him. Then the paws went to work again, cutting into his cheek as they burrowed to push the stones back. He could hear the sound of the rat sniffing, right by his ear, as it sought to gain room to bite. The heat of its breath was plain on his cheek. Then that cold nose touched him again, just below his eye.
The warm wet tongue was a shock, nearly as great as that of the anticipated bite. The paws were still going, scrabbling noisily, but beneath him now, as the animal fought to get at the brandy that had soaked into Harry’s clothes. He could hear a voice calling, indistinctly at first, but more clearly as the stones were dug out from around his ears. The name was burned into his brain.
“Sniff, damn you, get your arse out of there.”
The dog was pulled away, whining in protest, and Harry, who could now open his eyes, found himself staring into Braine’s angry purple face.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
TO SAY THAT Harry wasn’t popular was an understatement, and his suggestion that he stay in the cellar while the Preventative Officer fetched him a disguise only made matters worse. It was, of course, an absurd request, made on the spur of the moment. Braine might hold his tongue about Harry’s survival, but it was doubtful if the two men filling the cellar could be trusted to do the same. Yet he had to do something. Once word surfaced that he was alive, he had to believe there would be another attempt on his life.
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