Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House

by Stephanie Barron

  I was stupefied by this exercise of wit on Jenny’s part, and could only stare at her and await developments. They were not long in coming.

  “And could yer man not come in search of the boy?”

  “Dead,” she said succinctly. “At Trafalgar/

  The drunkard swept off his hat—or the one he imagined to be as yet on his head, but had lost some time since—with a grand gesture of his remaining arm. “Caleb Martin at yer service, good lady,” he informed Jenny. “As who could not be.”

  She actually simpered at him. I deemed it time to retrieve the reins.

  “Would you be so good as to direct us to the Bosun’s Mate?”

  “Gladly,” he said, “provided I knew where it was. There’s no pothouse o’ that name in Southampton, and I’ve been inside of ‘em all.”

  Studying his red-veined features, I could well believe the truth of this. I turned to Jenny. “Are you certain that was the name?”

  She looked at me helplessly, then nodded. “It’s not a common one, like the George, that a body could mistake.”

  “No. But a George we might have been certain of finding.” I sighed. “Let us proceed up the street. Perhaps we shall encounter a person better able to assist us than Mr. Martin.”

  The fellow attempted to bow, and went sprawling on all fours. I winced at the impact of his poor stump against the paving-stones, but he seemed quite insensible to pain. From his position at our feet, he looked upwards and grinned—a gap-toothed, rather hideous smile that was nonetheless endearing. “Yer boy wouldn’t be havin’ a joke with yer now, would he?”

  “Young Ned is capable of anything,” Jenny told him with resignation. “I almost wish he’d been sent to sea. It might be the making of him—same as yerself, Mr. Martin.”

  “I only ask, because o’ the name,” he explained.

  “The name?”

  “The Bosun’s Mate. Everyone in Orchard Lane calls old Jeb Hawkins that, on account of it being his station fer thirty year or more. You sure it wasn’t a person yer boy meant, and not a public house?”

  JEB HAWKINS LIVED IN A TIDY END OF CHARLOTTE Street, with a neat front yard and a kitchen garden set out to one side. He kept a dog, which howled as we approached, and a few guinea fowl. He had evidently been up with the sun, and had been working about his place some few hours. We took courage and introduced ourselves; and rather than setting the dog upon us, he bade us welcome. He was just about to take his morning ration of grog, and would be happy if we might join him.

  I should judge the Bosun’s Mate to be roughly the age of sixty. A person of his prolonged exposure to the elements can never exhibit an unmarked frame; he was bent from hard labour, and his eyes were creased from gazing perpetually up into the shrouds. It is the boatswain’s province on board ship to mind the sails and rigging, and report their condition daily to the first lieutenant; he is in charge, moreover, of all deck activity: the weighing and dropping of anchors, the taking of soundings, and the piping aboard of officers. The silver boatswain’s whistle is a badge of honour among the able seamen, the highest distinction they may hope to attain. Frank has often said that a good bosun is worth his weight in Bombay bullion, and much of mutiny may be avoided in a ship that boasts the same.

  “Mr. Hawkins,” I began, as Jenny and I perched upon two rattan chairs he had set out on the grass by a small table, “I am uncertain whether we disturb you to any purpose. A young woman—a stranger to us—said that we might find her through the Bosun’s Mate. I understand that is how you are sometimes called.”

  His thick white eyebrows lifted. “Are ye a naval lady, ma’am?”

  “My brother is a post captain.”

  “And his name?”

  “Francis Austen,” I replied.

  Mr. Hawkins nodded. “I’ve heard tell of yon. A grand, fighting cap’n, so they say, with none of your namby-pamby cut-and-run. Here’s to the lad and his barky ship.” He raised his tankard, and took a long draught, I glanced sidelong at Jenny; we appeared to be no forwarder.

  “Are you at all acquainted with Nell Rivers?” I persisted gently.

  The tankard crashed down with a thud. Eyes flashing, Jeb Hawkins thrust back his chair. “I’ll not have ye meddling saints getting on the pore girl’s back with all yer blather! She’s not going to a Reform House, you hear? Not without Jeb Hawkins has something to say about it. Pore Nell’s had enough to do, keeping body and soul together, and her the mother of three little ‘uns, with no man about the place, without ye mealy-mouthed pisspots and all your bloody hymns! Be off!”

  From the look on his face, he had been a bosun to fear indeed. Men must have quailed before the threat of his tongue, not to mention his lash; even in old age he could strike terror into a heart stouter than mine. Jenny was already on her feet, as though she meant to flee. But I reached out my hand in supplication.

  “I am no missionary of God,” I said quiedy. “I come in search of Nell because she asked it. She says she is in fear for her life.”

  The anger died out of his face. He settled once more in his chair and took a gulp of grog, scanning my countenance over the rim of his tankard. Then he sighed and set the loathsome mixture carefully on the table. A faint scent of rum laced the air.

  “What do ye want wit’ her?”

  “That I cannot tell you.”

  “May not—or won’t?”

  “Twice in three days Nell has sought my brother urgently. There is a matter of great importance she wishes to convey. And yet Captain Austen declares that Nell is unknown to him.”

  “Many a man has said the same, to her sorrow,” Jeb Hawkins observed.

  I leaned towards the old man and held his gaze. “My brother does not know this woman. And yet she wishes to speak to him. Captain Austen was from home when she came today, and she was sent away in disappointment. I am come to relieve her mind.”

  Jeb Hawkins glanced from my face to Jenny’s. Then he reached for a small ivory pipe, and settled it between his lips. “In fear for her life, you say? What has Nell to fear, in parting with such a bitter lot? She would be well out of her sorrows, and she found her grave.”

  “Surely while there is life in mind and body, there must be hope of amendment,” I said.

  He considered this. He rose from the table and ducked inside his small cottage to fetch a taper from his fire, then lit his pipe while standing in the doorway. I waited while the tobacco caught, and the smoke began to draw; I saw his narrowed eyes shift about the lane and then return to me. He lifted his shoulders in a gesture of surrender.

  “I will not tell you where to find my Nell,” he said. “I shall send word by a trusty boy. If she is truly in fear for her life, better that no one know where she bides.”

  “Tell her Captain Austen’s sister begs the favour of a meeting,” I suggested. “Tell her that I shall be walking with my maid near the Water Gate Quay. She might find me there within the hour. If she does not appear by eleven o’clock, I shall return to my lodgings in East Street Please impress upon her that we are most anxious to hear what she has to say.”

  “I’ll tell her.” He took his pipe from his mouth and fastened me with a look. “But God help you, miss, if Nell comes to the slightest harm.”

  1Jenny’s long acquaintance with the Austen family—she had been in their employ since 1803—meant that she had witnessed Jane’s involvement in the investigation of previous crimes, in Lyme and Bath particularly.—Editor’s note.

  2Southampton’s medieval walls still enclosed a good part of the city during Austen’s time, and the eastern wall was bounded at its far side by a drained moat. The Ditches, as this area was known, ran north from Winkle Street, which fronted Southampton Water, to Bar Gate, a distance of more than half a mile.—Editor’s note.

  Chapter 17

  What the Drab Saw

  28 February 1807,

  cont.

  ~

  NELL RIVERS DID NOT KEEP US WAITING LONG. WE achieved the Water Gate Quay inside of ten minute
s, our steps hastened by a fervent desire to put the district east of the Ditches entirely at our backs. The Quay is a lengthy, imposing structure thrust well out into Southampton Water; it provides an excellent walk despite the constant bustle of embarkation and landing. Jenny and I took great gulps of fresh sea air as we paced the stones, and gazed out at the ships tearing at their moorings. A hulk there was such as I had not observed before, dismasted and deprived of its rigging. It rode at anchor like the ghost of glory, mournful in its fractured state, a vessel becalmed for the rest of its days. I wondered at its purpose. Such ships are sometimes found at Spithead, for the lodging and training of landsmen and young officers; it was these that had seen the worst of the mutinies in ‘97. But a hulk was a rarer sight off Southampton.

  In contrast, I picked out an East Indiaman, which we learned from the chatter of small boys agog at the sight, had anchored but an hour before. She was broad of beam and low in the water with a considerable cargo, all her gay flags flying. The harsh calls of sailors echoed across the water, and skiffs were continually plying between the ship and the Quay. It was so busy, in fact, that I considered the coming interview with satisfaction. We might shout the particulars of murder and dissipation at Nell Rivers with impunity. No one should overlisten our conversation.

  I turned and studied Wool House, a stone’s throw opposite. So few hours ago I had watched Etienne LaForge enter that dispiriting place; and now he might be dead. Had I time to enquire of Mr. Hill, before Nell Rivers should approach? It was as I debated the question that I espied a small, dark-clad figure exiting the massive oak doors—the very surgeon! And bound on his way up Bugle Street! My heart leapt—I almost made to race after his figure—but that the sight of a second. man stopped me. Tall, with chestnut hair and brows that must always suggest malevolence, his broad shoulders concealed today by a black driving cloak with many ruffled capes. Sir Francis Farnham, quitting Wool House. He was certainly accompanying Mr. Hill. Had he disposed of the French prisoners? Were they even now bound for Greenwich, and the seamen’s hospital?

  But as the two men rounded the corner of French Street and made to mount the High, my interest was seized by another pair of fellow-travellers: two boys with curling dark hair and purposeful looks, their figures almost overwhelmed by serviceable wool cloaks of blue. They sported diminutive cockades, and each had a small midshipman’s trunk hoisted upon his shoulders. Charles and Edward Seagrave. They waited on the paving-stones while a coach-and-four rumbled past, then crossed to the Quay. Little Edward was struggling under the weight of his trunk; it teetered upon his shoulder and very nearly overset him. His brother paid him no regard, but made deliberately for the steps leading down to the water. Good God, did they intend to be rowed out to a ship?

  I gathered up my skirts and was on the point of dashing after them, when Jenny said urgently in my ear, “Miss! There’s the very woman! By the foot of the Quay. She is staring about like a rabbit in a snare. Shall I fetch her?”

  I had so far forgot Nell Rivers as to emerge almost from a reverie. I dragged my gaze unwillingly from the Seagrave boys—young Edward was even now disappearing down the steps in his brother’s wake—and turned to search for the figure Jenny would indicate. The woman had certainly espied us; and the expression of relief on her countenance was remarkable. It was as though she had been racked in a painful childbed, and we were her deliverers. I cast one last look towards the steps, hesitated an instant, then took Jenny by the arm and hastened down the Quay.

  She was both shorter and smaller than myself, a slip of a thing with a sharp, pointed face. One eye was blackened and bruised from the impact of a fist. Her hair was unwashed and ill-dressed; she wore a kerchief over it, like a common fishwife, but her dress was at once grander than one of these and more horrible in its cheapness. She was arrayed in a manner designed to reveal her charms, and her occupation—even so early in the day—must be obvious to everyone. It occurred to me that such a woman must have limited funds, and could hardly spare the coin to purchase a modest gown for daily use, when her money must be invested in her trade. And she had children, the Bosun’s Mate had said; three litde ‘uns, without a father. Such a family must run to considerable expense.

  “Are you Nell Rivers?”

  “Are you the Cap’n’s sister?” she asked in a low and hurried tone. “The one as asked to speak with me?”

  “I am Miss Austen,” I said. “You have twice begged an interview with my brother, and found him not at home.”

  “I meant no ‘arm, as God’s my witness,” she said, crossing herself fumblingly. “I only thought as he might be needing to hear what I know.”

  “Is this a private matter?” I asked her severely.

  She shook her head. The furtive, rabbity look that Jenny had described was returned in force. “Will the Cap’n hear me, now?”

  “He is regrettably engaged this morning,” I replied, “in the service of a friend accused of murder.”

  Nell Rivers blenched white, and staggered a bit as though she might swoon.

  “Here.” I grasped her arm. “You must rest a bit before you may speak. Lean against this pier.” There were pilings along the Quay, and a low stone parapet that served as viewing box for every urchin in Southampton with a lust for the sea. I directed her to a seat, and sank down beside her.

  “Dad said as you were a real lady,” she muttered. “I’m that ashamed—”

  “Mr. Hawkins is your father?” I looked up at Jenny, whose expression was aghast. “I think perhaps you should tell me what you know.”

  Nell glanced at me sidelong and shook her head. “It’s as much as my life is worth to speak. I daren’t.”

  “Am I right in thinking you know something of an officer whose body was found in the Ditches—Mr. Chessyre, lately first lieutenant of the Stella Maris?”

  She gasped, and pressed her hand to her mouth.

  “Are you going to be sick?”

  “No. It’s just that dreadful—the thought of poor Eustace.”

  “You were acquainted with him?”

  Her head bobbed. It was sunk so low into her bosom that I could not read her countenance. “Four year or more. We was mates.”

  “I see.”

  She fell silent, and I feared she might dissolve into weeping; but a second furtive glance informed me that she merely awaited initiative on my part. I reached for my reticule and extracted a shilling. Nell’s head lifted and her eyes widened. I pressed the coin into her palm, and her fingers closed.

  “Eustace was with me the night he died.” Her eyes were swimming with tears. “He was that afraid. That’s why he left the Dolphin, and come to set up with me. He’d done some dishonour, he said, and to try to put it right would only make things worse. He’d have to run for it, he said, only he needed some blunt. I said I’d help.”

  My opinion of Eustace Chessyre—already low— sank even further at this. Having failed to win his fortune from crime, the scoundrel thought to earn it off a woman’s back.

  “I’d never seen pore Eustace so jumpy in his skin. He wouldn’t go out, but must hide in my room; he’d start at every sound, allus looking over his shoulder. Fair gave me the shudders, so it did.” Nell shuddered now, in recollection.

  “He told you nothing of what he’d done?”

  “Not a particle. When I tried to wheedle it outta him—so as to make him easier in his mind, like—he give me this.” She pointed to her blackened eye.

  “Nothing? Not a word, not a hint of what his dishonour entailed? No … names … of anyone who might have been involved?”

  Again she shook her head.

  “Well,” I said, attempting to hide my disappointment, “at least we know where he was the night he died. Have you thought of telling the magistrate this?”

  She looked suddenly wild, and half rose as if to spring. “I’ll be clapped in gaol!” she cried. “They’ve no love for a whore, them judges, and they’ll lock me away.”

  “Calm yourself,” I said. “I di
d not intend to throw you into alarm.”

  “I only asked for the Cap’n because Mrs. Bidgeon— she runs the Mermaid’s Tail, where I work sometimes— said he was combing the quayside for news of Eustace. I told Eustace as much, thinking maybe it was Austen he’d dishonoured, and that he ought to lie low; but he just laughed. ‘It’s too late,’ he said. T can’t help him, nor him me. I’ve told off the Devil, and the Devil will have my neck for it! We’ll all go to the Devil together!’ “

  Nell dashed away her tears with one worn hand. “I’d never seen him like that—down and beaten. Like he’d been trod on by a pack o’ dogs. It scared me to death, and scares me still. When I heard they found his corpus—”

  “Had he left you? Left your house, I mean, before he died?”

  She gaped at me as though I were simple. “But that’s what I wanted to tell the Cap’n,” she said. “About the night he were murdered, and the coach.”

  “The coach?” I repeated.

  “The one that come for Eustace in the middle of the night. I watched him get in, and that was the last I ever saw of him, living or dead.”

  I felt a cold thrill travel up my spine. “He went into a coach of his own accord? Though he was afraid for his life?”

  “He looked like he thought it was the saving of him. There,’ I thought. ‘Eustace will be safe as houses. He’s got a friend or two more powerful than mine.’ ”

  “What time was this?”

  “Middle o’ the night. I don’t properly remember. Maybe four or five bells.”1

  She had, after all, been raised by a boatswain.

  “Was it a hack, or a private carriage?”

  Nell looked uncomprehending.

  “Do you recall noting any arms upon the doors?”

  “I couldn’t say. But the lady inside were very fine.”

  Jenny took a sharp breath beside me. I reached for Nell Rivers’s hand.

  “It was a lady Chessyre went to meet?”

  Nell nodded miserably. “I suppose she were the death of him, miss.”