A Lawless Place

by David Donachie

  ‘So?’

  ‘From what I saw at Cottington, you is not on good terms with Tulkington.’

  ‘And if that’s true?’

  ‘If you looked about, you’d have seen why. All the lads with whom I berthed were captive and nursing bruises, having been given a thumping by John Hawker’s lot. Did note he wasn’t lookin’ too chipper himself, mind.’

  ‘Is that where you got your bruises?’ The denial was vehement, changing an otherwise unthreatening face. In truth, if he had no desire to say where and when, it made no odds. ‘I think it best if you tell me what happened.’

  ‘You don’t know?

  The response to so stupid a question had to be delivered without sarcasm, which would not serve. ‘If I did, I wouldn’t ask, would I?’

  ‘Not sure where to start.’

  ‘The beginning is usually best,’ said Brazier coldly.

  Absurdly, he seemed to have to think about this, but it made so much sense Trotter had to accede and Brazier listened carefully, hoping that, in the explanation, there would be some gem that might give him grounds to seriously threaten Tulkington. It was the only way he could see to get Betsey free.

  ‘What do you know of Dan Spafford?’ Trotter asked.

  ‘I know who he is and what he does.’ It seemed unwise to mention the source of his information, or the wastrel son. ‘Little more.’

  Daisy went into a long and unnecessary tale regarding the way he and Spafford had met, as boys, and their adventures on the Baltic run, followed by the way they had been as close as brothers ever since, turning to smuggling.

  ‘I was with Dan all the way, helping him when he needed thinkin’ done.’

  The temptation to tell him to get to the point had to be avoided; if there was something he could use, he had no idea where it might reside. He did interrupt the telling from time to time, for clarification. One point was the nature of the meeting between Tulkington and Spafford, which Daisy had been arranging when first espied in that inn.

  ‘Can I take it, even if you told Tulkington it was so, your Dan is not at death’s door?’

  ‘Never. It were a ploy to suck Tulkington into an alliance, on the grounds that Dan’s boy Harry wouldn’t last two shakes once he was gone. As it happens, that bit’s likely true. Harry could never take over from his pa, being as he is one of Dan’s own gang would have done for him within weeks. Keeping him whole was supposed to be the point, but it were really an attempt to come close to Tulkington, to get on the inside, so as to have a chance to topple the bugger.’

  ‘From your tone, I can tell he didn’t bite.’

  Daisy had moved away from the door to hunch over the back of an armchair, his face becoming more animated as he related Spafford’s real motive for wanting the meeting. There being peace between Britain and France, he was coming close to penury. It hardly needed to be said war was so much better for smugglers: a higher price could be placed on contraband when the risks seemed so much greater.

  ‘Are they greater?’ Brazier asked, this before he realised he didn’t truly care.

  ‘Not much. Frenchie wants to sell his produce, an’ has no more respect for the law than we do. He jacks his price, mind.’ Trotter moved on to Spafford twice pinching Tulkington’s property, though it was noticeable he avoided any detail of how that had been done. ‘More was planned, ’cause we knew it would make him spit, which were enough. Had no idea who was carryin’ out the thieving. That was, ’til Harry was grabbed by Hawker and squawked.’

  ‘Cottington?’

  ‘Dan was invited to go alone and negotiate for Harry’s release, maybe to give back to Tulkington what we’d pilfered, who knows? But he didn’t go alone, an’ that was foreseen.’

  Brazier had wondered if the presence of so many other people had anything to do with what was happening to Betsey; now he know it was just coincidence.

  ‘They was waiting for us,’ came with a bitter tone, as if Tulkington had somehow broken an unwritten rule. ‘Lads walked into a trap and were had up to a man, but I managed to hide.’

  ‘Not get away?’

  ‘I was there for Dan, not Harry, worrying on what Tulkington, or more like Hawker, would do to him. Wouldn’t be the first time a soul has gone into the sea with a ball and chain to his ankle. I was on the ground not far off from where you was stood, hidden with it being dark outside the light from yon winder. I saw you aiming a pistol at Tulkington’s head and callin’ him all sorts. Have to admit I was hoping you’d pull the trigger.’

  ‘Do you know why?’ A headshake. ‘It matters only that I had good reason, Trotter, but the odds that night did not favour me. Tulkington and I are sworn enemies, so how do you think anything you can do will aid me? Or is it the reverse, you looking for me to help you?’

  ‘There’s still no sign of Dan,’ was not really an answer.

  ‘What of the men you said you berthed with?’

  ‘The way I was seen off, I reckon them to be locked up in Hawker’s slaughterhouse. Get them out. With them and you combined …’

  ‘We could effect a rescue?’ was issued in a dry tone, which should have told Trotter, who was looking at him eagerly, he was whistling for the moon. ‘How many men does Hawker have at his command?’

  ‘Much as twenty, but he can call on more if they’re needed. Lots of folk in Deal want to be right side of him.’

  ‘And how many do you think I can muster?’ A shrug. ‘Three men who are fighters, four bodies at a pinch, and myself.’

  ‘Got to do something,’ was a plea. ‘First we get the lads out of that damned slaughterhouse, then see about Dan.’

  Brazier later concluded it was certainly not sympathy that prompted him to say he would think on it, more pragmatism. As an ally, Daisy Trotter did not much appeal and nor did Dan Spafford, even if he had been free. But there was no point in saying so; best leave the door open.

  ‘I take it I can contact you at the place from which you wrote?’ A nod. ‘And you know where to find me. If I can think of a way we can combine to effect, I will be in touch. Likewise, if anything occurs at your end.’

  Trotter nodded.

  ‘Let me show you out.’

  As luck or misfortune would have it – this dependant on the side of the argument one occupied – while John Hawker’s planted seed was nurturing in the fertile soil of gossip, news came that William Pitt had arrived at Walmer Castle, this being the official residence of the Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports. The King’s First Minister did not occupy the sinecure, but a member of his cabinet, who had no use for the castle, did. A lover of sea air, Pitt used it instead, as a retreat from the cares of office.

  For Edward Brazier, this did not bode well. Given the rumours filtering through the taverns and gin shops about him, the coincidence of Pitt’s arrival was not seen as such. Suspicions went up a notch, as speculation combined his presence with Brazier’s purported purpose. Both were being tarred as sods who would see honest men starve. As ever the case, it was not seen as hypocrisy by those who held the law in contempt and broke it frequently.

  Brazier came back to Quebec House, to find an invitation that he should call on Pitt at his earliest convenience, there being a matter of much interest of which he might wish to be appraised. Given his present preoccupations, he could only think of one notion that would pertain, so he sent Joe Lascelles back with a suggestion to call first thing in the morning, which was declined.

  Instead Pitt suggested he would be eating at the Three Kings on the morrow and invited Brazier to join him there, happy to dine at the naval hour if that suited.

  Rattling down the drive in the early morning, Betsey was astonished they were obliged to stop prior to the gate being opened and so was her Aunt Sarah. It was even more to wonder on that Tanner peered into the coach, to stare at them with what was seen as a want of respect before nodding silently. The gate was then opened and they could proceed.

  ‘The effrontery of the fellow.’

  Sarah Lovell felt compelled to
complain, as she often did about the behaviour of servants, both indoors and out, though she had little to do with the latter. As her niece listened to her litany, she recalled her aunt had been a problem in the West Indies, treating the Langridge servants in a way Betsey had never sunk to, even if they were slaves.

  It had been dear, sweet Stephen, always fair-minded, who had proposed a justification: Aunt Sarah had little and was so dependent at home, she would seek compensation by being overbearing with those who dare not answer back. There was no temptation from Betsey to make this opinion known: the fewer words exchanged suited her most. Besides she was dealing with nerves and speculations on that which was to come, for the permission to call on the Colpoys had come quickly and with seeming delight.

  ‘Betsey, my dear,’ Annabel cried from the front step, to be followed by a more sober, ‘Mrs Lovell.’

  Annabel’s enthusiasm was not replicated. Betsey could see behind her, hovering in the doorway, the red hair and pugnacious rubicund face of her husband Roger. His presence had not been anticipated, she assuming that as the owner of a working farm, at this time of year especially with ploughing in progress, Roger would be out supervising his fields. But she had to respond with a smile when Annabel trilled that Roger had stayed behind today, especially because she was about to call.

  There was a temptation to be churlish and point something out. The same Roger had instructed his wife and children to shun Betsey. Very recently they had ignored her before and after a divine Sunday service at St Leonard’s Church. There would have been satisfaction in saying so but it had to be beaten back. That Annabel had obeyed the injunction hurt a great deal, as did the shy avoidance of the normally overboisterous Colpoys children.

  Roger she cared not a fig about; he had always seemed to her, with his air of bluff pomposity, a bit of a caricature of John Bull manners, a man Annabel, who had not been as favoured by nature as she, had married to avoid the shelf.

  ‘Damn good to see you, Elisabeth,’ he boomed, to get a frown from a wife who was ever upset by his coarse language, not that her disapproval ever had any effect. ‘Been too long, far too long. Mrs Lovell, likewise.’

  The three children were lined up in the hall, their unruly ginger hair combed and their clothing neat, which was in stark contrast to normality. When it came to being rowdy and finding dirt, few could hold a candle to them, evidence they took after their sire, not their mother. Betsey and Sarah Lovell were treated to a pair of regulation bows from the boys and a curtsy from the daughter, before they were sent upstairs to their schoolroom.

  A servant materialised to take hats and cloaks, he instructed to tell the groom to see to the Tulkington coachmen, who would, no doubt, be grateful for some beer and a home-made pie.

  ‘Mrs Colpoys has ordered tea, ladies,’ Roger imparted, in a whisper, as they entered the drawing room. ‘But I have decanted some very fine claret, if that is what you would prefer.’

  ‘Tea will serve nicely, Mr Colpoys,’ came from the aunt, with Betsey given a look that took for granted her compliance.

  The nod in response was made in the abstract; Betsey was looking around a room she had been in often, wondering why it seemed so unfamiliar, until she realised it was not the place, but her gazing upon it differently. At no time in the past had she come here so intent on intrigue, looking for somewhere to surreptitiously leave her message. This made her aware that beneath the linen of her glove, her palm was sweating, which gave some concern that it would ruin the folded note she had tucked there.

  Distraction came from everyone being invited to sit and, in doing so, engage in the normal concomitant of enquiries about health and references to the weather. Everyone talked of how happy they were winter was over and gave forth on being in good order. Only Roger, seeing the requirement to boom with an added thump on his chest, felt it necessary to say he had never felt better, that immediately followed by a deep gulp of wine.

  ‘And how are things at Cottington?’ Annabel asked, smiling at Betsey.

  Posed with seeming innocence, it was larded with anything but. She knew her friend had been in dispute with Henry, knew about Edward Brazier and the burgeoning affection of which Betsey had made no secret. Annabel suspected it would surely lead to matrimony, as soon as her term of widowhood was seen as served.

  Betsey’s smile in response was forced, Sarah Lovell looking at her with a gimlet stare. Here was the test and she was wondering if her niece would pass it. Henry had insisted that matters of recent importance be treated with the utmost discretion. There was no need for Elisabeth to tell the world she was now Mrs Spafford; certainly she would pay dearly if she let out how such a union had come about.

  In what was no more than a second, but felt like a lifetime, Betsey ranged over her fears, the consequences of what would flow from disobedience and not just confinement. At a whim, Henry could fetch back Spafford and what would happen then? She so dreaded the consequences, it was safer to say, ‘Much improved.’

  ‘So Henry and you are—’

  Annabel stopped, realising she had nearly said reconciled, which was wandering into territory best left alone and had been imparted without Lovell knowing. Betsey had previously alluded to differences with her brother, so they were not secret in this house, but that was best not aired. Roger, if it was even possible, seemed to have gone a deeper shade of red in his cheeks. Sarah Lovell was so rigid she looked like a waxwork. The name Brazier hung in the air like Banquo’s Ghost.

  ‘On the very best of terms, Annabel,’ Betsey added, with an enthusiasm entirely manufactured. ‘He is kindness itself.’

  ‘Splendid,’ boomed a relieved husband, allowing himself another gulp, this as the door opened, which allowed him to add with seeming relief, ‘Ah! Tea!’

  The unbuttoning of Betsey’s right-hand glove was accomplished while the tea was being poured. Getting out the note was done by stages, as conversation moved on. With the subject of Cottington now safely out of the way, it turned to other acquaintances and, as parents, Annabel and Roger tended to relate a great deal to the activities of the children, only some as amusing as they supposed.

  Having got to the point of no return, Betsey found it necessary to drop her tea cup, which broke on the wooden floor, sending the contents flying, as well as bits of crockery. In the confusion created, the note was taken out and concealed, all accompanied by her apologies and an insistence from Annabel that the loss of a piece of china did not matter in the least.

  When the time came to depart, and kisses on the cheek were exchanged, Betsey got a chance to give Annabel a very brief message. ‘Cushion, side of. Note.’

  As the heads moved apart, it was obvious to Betsey that Annabel was alarmed. But it was only in her eyes, so no one else could see it.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Henry Tulkington entered Lincoln’s Inn, which housed the chambers of his Uncle Dirley, in a good frame of mind. Things had been set in motion in Deal, which should see one problem removed. Once Brazier was out of the way, he could begin to repair relations with Elisabeth, not that he thought such a thing would be straightforward; it would take time and there was some hope she would be free of entanglements sooner than anticipated.

  His impression of Harry Spafford was of a man who would very likely drink himself into an early grave. When it came to that, he would find in his brother-in-law a willing provider of funds. Not that he would use his own money; the income from the West Indies plantations would more than meet any bill.

  A night in London, giving him access to the more refined carnal entertainments to which he was wedded, had left him feeling contented. There was also something energising about the bustle of the city, with its air of affluence, added to the constant transacting of business. It differed so markedly, when set against the sleepy, repetitive and parochial culture he was obliged to mix with at home.

  He was calling on the man who had guided him in his affairs following the death of his father. Dirley Tulkington had been raised in the same part
of the world as Henry, but years here allowed him to exude an air of metropolitan polish. In addition, his appearance, in a frame not short of burly, was so different from that of his tall and narrow-chested nephew that no one in ignorance of the name would have guessed they shared a bloodline.

  With a full ruddy face, albeit with a trace of hairy shadow, Dirley sported flowing silver locks, to which was added a deep and attractive voice. With that went the manner of a man at ease in the world in which he moved: the higher reaches of London society, in which he maintained important connections. Acquainted with everybody of standing, he numbered among his close friends numerous people of real influence.

  From modest beginnings, Dirley had risen to move with ease in the upper social layers of the capital. An illegitimate scion of the family, sired by Henry’s grandfather, he had been put to learning the law, so as to be of use in a family concern intent on expansion. The dividend came when he, using his legal skills, a fine brain and growing social connections, helped take it from an enterprise fraught with risk to one of comparative security.

  Working with his half-brother, Acton, they had polished what Dirley always referred to as a rough stone: running contraband might involve the need for violence at the sharp end, but he saw no need to have it run through to the marrow. He had taken over the financial and technical details of the purchase and transportation of goods, connections arranged long past and nurtured ever since.