Blood & Sugar

by Laura Shepherd-Robinson

  ‘I hope you have given my proposal sufficient thought. I could have my lawyer draw up a contract of investment this afternoon.’

  I studied his weathered face, wondering what he was doing in the opium house last night. I wanted to ask him, but I did not wish to arouse his suspicions. To use an expression appropriate to Deptford, I had other fish to fry.

  ‘I regret to say that I do have one concern, Mr Monday. I have heard a disquieting rumour about your business.’

  He frowned. ‘What have you heard?’

  ‘That one of your ships made a voyage on which the greater part of the cargo was lost. Three hundred slaves thrown overboard by the crew. You told me that you only lose three to five per cent of your cargo, but this must have been more like sixty-five per cent. I must say, the prospect of my money lying at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean does not enthral me.’

  He nodded. ‘A tragic incident, and one I regret profoundly. Yet the slaves were insured. None of my investors lost a penny. The voyage even made a small profit.’

  ‘I struggle to understand it. Why were so many slaves killed?’

  ‘It was unavoidable. Yet I have taken measures to ensure it could never happen again. You have my word.’

  ‘In these circumstances, sir, I require more than your word. I desire an explanation.’

  He frowned. ‘Very well. Though it is not a cheerful tale.’

  Monday interlaced his fingers on the desk, and stared at them as he spoke. He seemed ill at ease, and I knew we would not be having this conversation had he not believed a large investment was at stake. ‘To understand it, you need to know a little about the early part of the voyage. The Dark Angel – that’s the name of the vessel in question – sailed from Deptford in the spring of ’78. She reached Africa without incident and was plying for slaves along the Bight of Bonny, when the captain, a gentleman named Evan Vaughan, had what appeared at the time to be a piece of luck. He went ashore to meet the commissioner of one of the slave forts, and was offered a captured French Guineaman for sale. All my captains carry letters of credit backed by my investors in case of opportunities such as this. Vaughan jumped at the chance. He appointed his second officer to captain the captured vessel, and divided his crew between the two ships. To make up the shortfall, he took on Dutch sailors he found drifting around the slave forts. The two ships plied the Guinea coast for a little over four months, while Vaughan bought slaves. The Duc d’Orleans sailed first. She is now named The Phoenix, the ship I showed you yesterday in the dock. The Dark Angel weighed anchor two weeks later, bound for Kingston, Jamaica, with four hundred and sixty Africans on board.’

  Monday passed a hand across his chin. ‘I cannot fault Vaughan’s actions in any regard. He is one of my most experienced captains and he acted quite properly. Yet the Dutch sailors proved difficult to master and that diverted his attention. Otherwise, I am certain that the leak would have been discovered sooner.’

  ‘The leak?’

  ‘In one of the water tanks. They found it four weeks into the Middle Passage. By the time it was discovered, the tanks were running so low on water that a stark fact could not be avoided. There was not enough water left for the remainder of the voyage.’

  I frowned. ‘You’re saying the slaves died of thirst? I understood they went into the water alive, not dead.’

  ‘My officers were faced with an unenviable dilemma. If they continued to provide water to all the slaves, then the water would run out, and all would die. Calculations were made and the officers realized that only around one hundred and fifty slaves could be saved. They brought the Negroes up on deck, and assessed their condition. The strongest hundred and fifty were separated from the rest. The weakest were then thrown overboard, as you have heard.’ He shook his head. ‘Those poor men, having to make such a wretched choice. I feel for them.’

  Thirsty work. Again I imagined the long drop to the water, the currents dragging wasted limbs below the surface. The children. I felt hot, sickened – also confused.

  ‘They might have met another ship,’ I objected. ‘Surely another vessel would have spared them water? Or it might have rained? By their actions, the officers guaranteed that the slaves would die.’

  ‘They also guaranteed that the remaining slaves would survive. As an investor, I’m sure you appreciate that. It is possible that a fortuitous event, such as you describe, could have saved the cargo in its entirety. Yet they would have been taking quite a risk. My insurance only covers the initial purchase cost of the slaves, not their price at market. By ensuring that a portion of the cargo remained alive and fit and healthy, the officers made certain that a significant profit was still made. The deaths I regret enormously – a tragic product of unique circumstance – but I console myself with the thought that they went to their graves good Christian souls. Their lives were foreshortened, but they were spared the Devil’s fire.’

  Some might view the events Monday described as an unfortunate commercial mistake. I considered it a terrible crime. Hundreds of men, women and children, who should not have been on that damn ship in the first place, consigned to oblivion because Englishmen didn’t want to risk their profit. I knew Tad must have shared my fury – he would have wanted these men to face justice. Such a crime demanded retribution.

  As I contemplated the massacre, the sounds of a commotion reached us. We both turned as the door flew open, and the mayor, Lucius Stokes, strode into the room. Behind him, I glimpsed the bulging eyes of Abraham, his black footman, and the anxious face of Monday’s maidservant.

  ‘Forgive me, Mr Monday. My business will not wait.’

  ‘Mr Stokes.’ Monday rose from his chair. ‘I regret to say that I cannot receive you right now. I am in the middle of a meeting with an investor.’

  ‘That is why I have come.’ Stokes gave me a hard stare. ‘I fear you have been imposed upon, sir. This gentleman is no investor. He is a friend of that murdered abolitionist. Child tells me Captain Corsham has been making inquiries into the murder around town. I would have come before, but I was busy with the delegation.’

  Again the mayor reminded me of my father, this time less for his patrician looks, more for his hectoring tone and threatening eye. As Monday listened, a succession of emotions trailed across his face. I identified confusion, anger certainly, perhaps even fear.

  ‘Is this true?’ he asked.

  ‘It is,’ I replied.

  The muscles of his cheek contracted. ‘Then I must ask you to leave. Your conduct is not that of a gentleman.’

  ‘I would not have misled you had I not thought it necessary. Mr Archer came to Deptford because of the slaves murdered on your ship. I believe he was killed to prevent his inquiry into that crime.’

  ‘What crime?’ Stokes exclaimed. ‘A man can no more murder his slave, than he can his dog or his chair. If the crew of that ship had cut the throats of every Negro aboard in cold blood, it would not be accounted a murder by any English court. My ships have sailed the Middle Passage for over thirty years, sir. I assure you I am familiar with the law.’

  ‘Mr Stokes is right.’ Monday had quickly recovered his composure. ‘I fear you have been labouring under a misapprehension, sir. Neither myself, nor my crew, had anything to fear from Archer’s inquiry. I told him so myself, to no avail. Even after he upset my wife and servants, I still treated him with courtesy.’

  On the point of law, I knew they were correct. Yet something wasn’t right with their story.

  ‘Then why was Archer receiving threatening letters? Why did I receive one myself last night? Why did his killer burn your company’s brand into his chest? Why have I been attacked on the streets of Deptford by one of your officers?’

  I noticed Stokes shoot Monday a curious glance. Neither man had any answers for me. ‘I will not be deterred, gentlemen. I will find Archer’s killer, and I will see him hang.’

  ‘You should know,’ Stokes said, ‘that I have written today to the War Office, complaining about your conduct in the strongest ter
ms. I have also written to Napier Smith, the Chairman of the West India lobby.’

  My heart sank at the thought of having to explain myself to my patron, Nicholas Cavill-Lawrence. As Under-Secretary of State for War, he would surely read Stokes’s letter, and would doubtless share Caro’s opinion of my actions. He would also be anxious about upsetting the West India lobby. I did not subscribe to Tad’s conspiratorial theories about the lobby, but their influence I didn’t doubt. They gave substantial donations to the governing party, and had the power to halt a young parliamentarian’s rise before it had even begun. I was still mulling this disastrous turn of events when the silence was broken by a woman’s cry of distress.

  Monday ran from the room. Stokes and I followed, and we caught up with him outside his front door. A lady was standing on the street, gazing at the front steps. Scattered over them were a great many animal bones, the stairs resembling the shelves of an ossuary. On the top step lay the corpse of a rooster. The bird’s entrails were spread around its body like the dead dove I had seen on Brabazon’s doorstep.

  Stokes’s footman, Abraham, was beside the woman, and seemed to be trying to calm her down. Monday glared at him. ‘You, boy. Are you responsible for this?’

  The footman swivelled round. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Sir, please,’ the woman said, stammering slightly. ‘It could not have been Abraham. He came out of the house just now, when he heard me scream. The bones were already here.’

  ‘Of course it wasn’t Abraham.’ Stokes kicked the bird and it sailed into the street. ‘I’ll have another word with Child. We’ll catch them soon enough.’ He descended the steps and bowed to the lady. ‘Dear Mrs Monday. Pray don’t distress yourself.’

  The lady seemed much shaken by the incident, her fingers twisting the handles of her basket. She was much younger than her husband, no more than thirty, short in stature, with a pleasing figure that even her high-necked green gown could not disguise. Her black hair was scraped back in a simple knot, secured by ivory pins. A long straight nose was her dominant feature, below a pair of darting blue-green eyes. Her high forehead wore a shine of perspiration. Monday placed his hands upon her shoulders.

  ‘There now, Eleanor. I have told you that these devilish tricks have no power to harm you.’ He stroked her face, and I thought I saw her flinch.

  She took a deep breath. ‘Forgive me, gentlemen. I did not mean to startle anyone.’ Like Monday, her voice held a Deptford edge.

  I bowed. ‘Madam.’

  She started to speak, but her husband spoke over her: ‘Captain Corsham was just leaving. He and I have no more business to discuss.’

  He placed a hand in the small of her back and steered her towards the house. Lucius Stokes and his footman followed them inside. Doubtless they intended to talk about me. I stole a final glance at Mrs Monday as she passed through her front door. Her black hair, her small stature, the ivory pins in her hair. There was little doubt in my mind. She was the woman in the black lace veil who had sat alone in the congregation at Tad’s funeral.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Why had Eleanor Monday, wife of The Dark Angel’s owner, attended Tad’s funeral? Was she simply a Christian woman, appalled by the manner of his death? Or were her motives more complicated? She certainly hadn’t wanted to be identified. I needed to speak to her, but I could hardly knock on her door when Monday and Stokes were inside. Frustrated, I walked back towards the High Street.

  Mayor Stokes’s letters to the War Office and the West India lobby had changed everything. My inquiry now had the potential to turn into the scandal Caro feared. I decided I had better return to London to explain myself. If I left Deptford this afternoon, that would leave me enough time to call in upon Amelia Bradstreet and still be home before nightfall. Then I could speak to Cavill-Lawrence first thing tomorrow morning, hopefully before he’d read Mayor Stokes’s letter. That plan still left me a little time in Deptford and I was determined to put it to good use.

  A man was selling fried whitebait to shoppers on the High Street, and another was giving donkey rides to children. Outside the coaching inn, gentlemen were drinking in the sun, well-dressed whores soliciting discreetly for their business. The merchants of the Strand might move to the Broadway when they made their money, but they plainly didn’t leave all their old habits behind them.

  The landlord had an amiable face the colour of ham, and wore a brown powdered wig. I asked for Captain Vaughan, but he shook his head.

  ‘I haven’t seen him in six weeks. I think he’s gone out of town.’

  ‘But he does lodge here?’

  ‘For the moment. He’s late with his rent.’

  ‘Do you know where he’s gone?’

  ‘To ground, I imagine. Probably running from a jealous husband.’ He looked me up and down. ‘Not you, is it?’

  ‘Not guilty.’ I held up my hands and he grinned. ‘A common problem with Vaughan, is it, cuckolded husbands?’

  ‘Man’s an old dog. I told him if he ever laid a finger on Rosy, I’d cut it off. He’d be lucky if I stopped at the finger.’

  I smiled. ‘That sounds like Evan Vaughan.’

  ‘Friend of yours, is he?’

  ‘We go back years. I heard he’d been sick. It concerned me.’

  A fair, buxom woman with brawny arms came into the bar from the room behind. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Fellow here is a friend of Evan Vaughan. Wants to know about his illness.’

  She tapped her skull. ‘Cavorting with the fairies half the time.’

  ‘He’s been acting strange for a year or two now, if you want to know the truth,’ her husband said. ‘Lately it got worse.’

  ‘Did a gentleman ever come here to talk to Vaughan?’ I described Tad.

  ‘Aye, I remember him. Scrawny fellow. Came a couple of months back. They went upstairs to the captain’s room. Talked for a time.’

  ‘That was the night Vaughan smashed up his furniture,’ his wife reminded him. ‘We nearly fetched Perry Child. Couldn’t calm him down.’

  ‘He paid for the damage, but he frightened Rosy half to death. I wasn’t happy.’

  ‘How long was this before he left town?’

  They looked at one another. ‘Two weeks or so? The scrawny fellow came back looking for him a couple of times.’

  I wondered where Vaughan was now, and if he’d been running from more than a jealous husband.

  ‘Don’t forget the other goings-on,’ the landlady put in. ‘That unsettled Vaughan too.’ She made a sign with her fingers, the sort country folk make to ward off the evil eye. ‘Two horrible black chickens left on the doorstep. Bones too, and strange signs chalked on the tavern walls. Vaughan took it badly. It stopped when he left town. I think those birds were meant for him.’

  I digested this news, wondering if I should discount Vaughan from my inquiry. He had left Deptford long before Tad was murdered, and yet I could not preclude the possibility that he had returned. He and Tad must have talked about The Dark Angel and it had certainly sparked a reaction. The description of Vaughan’s behaviour matched Jamaica Mary’s account of his assault on the whore at the bathhouse. Perhaps he’d murdered Tad in a fit of frenzy? Yet the slave brand, the torture, and the placing of the body at the dock suggested forethought.

  The story about the dead birds also intrigued me. A dove on Brabazon’s doorstep. A rooster on John Monday’s. Black chickens for Vaughan. Were these strange offerings connected to the dead slaves? Was someone trying to send the crew a message? If so, then I did not think it was kindly meant. Dead birds and bones. It felt like a curse.

  *

  James Brabazon. I had thought about him often since I had discovered he was The Dark Angel’s surgeon. I remembered our dinner at the Noah’s Ark with little affection. Before I left Deptford I wanted to confront him with his lies.

  I knocked at his door, but received no reply. So I stuck my head into the shop and asked the apothecary if he knew where I might find his tenant.

  �
�He’s in the city on business,’ the man said. ‘I’m not expecting him back for a couple of days.’

  I chafed at the news. Everywhere I encountered obstacles to my progress. I was more convinced than ever that Tad had been killed to prevent his inquiry into the massacre on board The Dark Angel, though how that inquiry threatened the ship’s officers was still a mystery. Nor did I understand how it related to his scheme to end slavery. Nor his powerful enemies. I was missing something important, perhaps several things.

  John Monday would tell me nothing more, now he knew my proposed investment was a sham. James Brabazon and Evan Vaughan were out of town. Frank Drake had an alibi I was unable to disprove. Peregrine Child and Scipio had their own motives for refusing to help me. Daniel Waterman, the cabin boy with the broken leg, was sedated by laudanum and couldn’t talk even had he wished to. Other than Nathaniel Grimshaw, only Cinnamon was willing to speak to me, and then at a price.

  I walked back to the Noah’s Ark, where I found Nathaniel in the taproom. I packed my bags and then settled my account with him. He looked disappointed to learn I was returning to London. At least someone in Deptford was sorry to see me go.

  ‘I will be back in a few days,’ I said, and he brightened.

  I told him about the letter I’d received. ‘Mr Archer received similar letters, I think from the same author. I suspect one of them was the letter he asked you about. Did you see anyone go upstairs when you were here yesterday?’

  He shook his head. ‘I was in and out, but Mr Child was here all afternoon. You could ask him?’

  ‘Your mother told me. I will.’ Not that I expected much help from that quarter.

  I wondered about the transaction I’d witnessed between Nathaniel and the well-dressed stranger at the warehouse last night. I decided not to ask him about it. It was unlikely to have any connection to my inquiry, and I wanted to keep him as an ally. I hoped it wasn’t anything too dangerous. I knew what it was like to lose a father and be thrust into penury. Father’s creditors had circled like buzzards after his death, and had it not been for the pity of a distant cousin, I would have been left penniless. Perhaps I could help Nathaniel and myself at the same time? I took the silver ticket from my pocket. ‘Have you ever seen anything like this before?’