‘Looking for him. He was supposed to represent some of our slaves in court and he didn’t show. The judge wasn’t happy. Neither was I. I went to his rooms to have it out with him, and thought I heard someone moving around inside. Yet when I knocked, Archer didn’t answer.’
‘A man employed by the ministry searched his rooms that night. He was looking for the missing papers. I think the killer is too – that’s why he tortured and killed Amelia Bradstreet. The ministry and the West India lobby believe they aren’t in Deptford, because the mayor, a man named Stokes, hasn’t found them. I think they’re wrong.’
Caesar John scowled. ‘I don’t give a flying fuck for any missing papers. Nor this damn ship. Am I in danger? Is Jupiter’s wife? Are any of my people?’
‘Not unless they had dealings with Archer over this. Did they?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Then they should be safe.’
Looking at his face, I realized that I could count on little help from the Children of Liberty. Caesar John only wanted to protect his people. I could hardly blame him for that. Jupiter, Proudlock, Amelia, her maid. The costs of Tad’s inquiry were mounting.
Caesar John jammed his pistol into his belt and took a knife from his pocket. At the sight of it, Moses Graham started praying.
‘Be quiet, you fat fool. I’m not going to kill you.’
He cut the ropes that bound my hands and then did the same for Graham. We flexed our fingers, blood flowing in to warm them.
‘I’ll have my men take you back,’ Caesar John said.
We returned to the other room, where he ordered his men to ready the carriage. ‘You’ll be hooded again. I can’t risk anyone finding out about this place.’
‘I understand.’ I looked at the slaves huddled on the floor, with their ragged clothes and frightened eyes, wondering what torments they’d experienced in their short lives. ‘Why do you need to keep them here? Don’t they have injunctions from a judge? I thought that was how it worked?’
‘Oh, we have injunctions,’ Caesar John said. ‘The ruling of the judge is clear: their owners have no hold on them while the matter of their freedom is under consideration by the courts. It doesn’t stop their masters looking for them. They pay crimping gangs to do it. Once they’re on a ship bound for the Caribbean, the courts can’t reach them. Nor do they try very hard.’
What a country, I thought. How we weave ourselves into knots trying to convince ourselves we are not monsters, even as we grow fat upon the profits of our monstrosity.
Caesar John placed a hood over Graham’s face, but when he came to me, he paused. ‘What will you do with the killer when you find him?’
‘Put him on trial. See him hang.’
‘You think the West India lobby will let that happen?’
I didn’t answer, and he smiled. ‘There’s more than one kind of justice. Bring him here, if you like. Young Jupiter was popular. My men would welcome that.’
I gazed at his young, angry face with its scars. Up close I could see that the flesh had been burned, and I wondered if it was a memento of his criminal endeavours or of his time as a slave. ‘I think Tad would have wanted the law to take its course.’
‘The law is a cunt, that’s my motto.’ He placed the sack over my head. ‘Remember my offer, soldier. You might change your mind.’
*
We sat hooded in the carriage, as it jolted back through London. This time our hands were left untied, and only one man kept us company. A curious calm had descended over me. Perhaps it was simply lack of sleep, or the blow to the head I had sustained.
Eventually, the carriage stopped and our hoods were removed. I blinked at the sudden brightness of the light. We were on the fringes of the Covent Garden market and barrowmen were setting out their stalls. We climbed down from the carriage, amidst the crates and spilled vegetables, the banter of the marketmen volleying around us. Moses Graham smiled at me weakly, as if amazed to discover he was still alive.
‘You should go out of town, Mr Graham,’ I said. ‘Lie low for a while.’
‘Probably I should, but I don’t think so.’
‘You saw what was done to poor Proudlock. If you are right, the killer will be coming for you next.’
‘For all of us,’ Graham said. ‘Yet freedom gives one choices, does it not? I cannot accompany you to Deptford, sir. A free Londoner of my race would be of little use to you there – and I would place myself in danger of abduction to the Caribbean. Yet there are other places I can visit, to ask around about the ship and her voyage. Black taverns. Black coffeehouses. News from Jamaica comes in all the time. And someone may have seen Proudlock in Spitalfields before the killer took him. I will go down there and see what I can find.’
I shook my head. ‘This isn’t wise, sir. Archer and Proudlock wouldn’t have wanted you to risk your life.’
‘Perhaps not – and yet I find that I must. I enjoy my food and my wine, sir, probably more than I should. I like to walk by the river, and feel the sun on my face. I like my books and my letters and my paints and my violin. I like the life I have fashioned for myself here. Yet while slavery and its practitioners prosper, I cannot stand idly by. I might also add that Mr Archer and Mr Proudlock were my friends.’
I gazed up at the pale sky, only lightly warmed by the nascent sun. ‘Good luck, Mr Graham. God keep you safe.’
*
After Moses Graham and I had parted, having arranged to meet again on my return from Deptford, I walked home past maids shaking out rugs and beggars sleeping in doorways. The air was filled with the smoke of ten thousand chimneys: London brewing tea, reaching for the sugar jar.
Pomfret started with surprise when I walked into the hall. I glanced in the console mirror and saw how dishevelled I was. This was becoming a habit.
‘I am perfectly fine, Pomfret. It was just a fall. Have my horse made ready, please. I’m going out.’
‘Very good, sir.’ I could sense Pomfret’s scepticism. He probably thought I’d been out all night drinking. I went upstairs and found Caro’s door was locked. She’d gone to Carlisle House last night and I wondered whom she’d seen there. Such thoughts still had the power to wound me. I walked on.
In my dressing room, I washed, and changed my coat and wig. Then I went to the nursery, where Gabriel lay sleeping. I kissed him and he stirred, murmuring something in his sleep. I fought the urge to take him in my arms and went back to my room.
I packed a bag, and cleaned my sword and pistol. Downstairs in my bookroom, I wrote a short letter to Caro, explaining that I was going back to Deptford and would be gone a few days. I wrote another to Cavill-Lawrence saying that I’d been called out of town again. I didn’t expect him to believe me, but that couldn’t be helped. Outside in the mews, my coachman, Sam, had Zephyrus ready. I secured my bag and pulled myself into the saddle.
I rode out into Mayfair just as the bells were tolling eight. I wondered what dangers lay ahead for me, and what would be left of my life when I returned. It made for uncomfortable thinking, and so I thought about Tad on the river. When I pictured him, his features were sharper. I carried him with me.
I rode east and then south, across the City to London Bridge. The sun on the water shimmered iridescent, like the scales of a snake.
PART FOUR
29 JUNE TO 3 JULY 1781
I assign the term ‘bondage’ to man’s lack of power to control and check the emotions. For a man at the mercy of his emotions is not his own master but is subject to fortune, in whose power he so lies that he is often compelled, although he sees the better course, to pursue the worse.
IV. Of Man’s Slavery or the Force of the Passions, Ethics, Baruch Spinoza
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Mrs Grimshaw gave me a long look when I walked into the Noah’s Ark. ‘Frank Drake says I’m not to let you stay here anymore.’
I gave her my most gentlemanly bow. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, madam. What do you say?’
She sighed. ‘I
say this is my inn. Who’s he to give me orders? Frank Drake, who was my husband’s junior officer? Besides, we need the money. Here’s your key.’
I thanked her. ‘Is Nathaniel at home?’
‘He’s gone out looking for Jago. Wretched beast has run off.’
‘I’m heading up to the Broadway shortly. I’ll look out for the dog.’
‘If you would, sir. Perhaps you could have a word with my Nate too, if you run across him? He was upset enough as it was, what with losing his father and his apprenticeship. Now Brabazon’s had to take poor Daniel Waterman’s leg and Jago’s gone the devil knows where. A word from you might help. He’s taken quite a shine to you. Said I was to let you stay here, no matter what Drake said.’
Pleased that my alliance with the boy was bearing fruit, I said I would.
‘I’m sorry to hear about Waterman. How is he?’
‘He’ll live, Brabazon says, but what sort of a life is a cripple’s? Nate wants us to keep him here for good, but times are hard for us too.’
I murmured my sympathy. ‘I didn’t realize Nathaniel had been an apprentice. I’d presumed he was always destined for slaving.’
‘Oh, my Amos had grand plans for him – wanted something better for the boy. An attorney up in the Broadway took him on. We couldn’t afford it anymore after Amos passed.’ She brushed away a tear.
I wondered if she knew how much time and money her husband had spent in the Deptford bathhouse. It was anyone’s guess. Sometimes ignorance is a godsend. Sometimes it’s better to know the truth. Often we occupy an uneasy state between the two.
‘I heard about you tricking your way into John Monday’s house,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t have done that, sir. Mr Monday is a good man. After my Amos died, when he heard we were likely to lose the inn, he offered Nate an officer’s place, even though the boy had never spent a day at sea. That never happens except with those who’ve paid for the privilege. Then there’s the school he founded here in the Strand. And the surgery for the poor.’
‘A living saint.’
She gave me another look. ‘He does good where he sees bad. There aren’t many in Deptford who do that. Have a care in these alleys, sir. Frank Drake’s put the word round about you. You might come up against some of the bad yourself.’
*
It was another hot day, though the air held a faint promise of rain. I kept an eye out for Nathaniel on my walk up to the Broadway, but I didn’t see him. I wondered if he’d made any progress with my silver ticket, or if he’d been too upset about Daniel Waterman’s amputation. I planned to visit the cabin boy later on, and I very much hoped he’d be able to talk to me. The questions I had for him kept mounting. Was he Tad’s witness? Had he stolen the missing documents? What precisely were those documents? Who had broken his leg? The closer I came to The Dark Angel and the crimes of her crew, I believed, the closer I’d come to Tad’s murderer. If Waterman had any evidence of the insurance fraud, then I needed to hear it.
Similarly, I needed to speak to Cinnamon again. Scipio’s account of her background suggested she couldn’t be the female slave who had returned to Deptford on board The Dark Angel. Yet I wasn’t sure I believed him. Scipio was anxious to preserve his position as the mayor’s secretary, and the girl was his master’s property. It was possible he had lied to protect his own interests. I had no desire to make trouble for him, but in this instance it couldn’t be helped. If Cinnamon was the slave girl in question, then I needed to hear her story. Either way, I’d resolved to help her escape this town and her master. The upshot be damned.
I also wanted to locate The Dark Angel’s captain, Evan Vaughan. If he was truly losing his mind, as his landlady had implied, then he might let something slip once I put him to the question. I hadn’t entirely discounted the possibility that he might be the killer, though I’d been told that he’d left Deptford some weeks ago. His addiction to opium, coupled with Tad’s purchase of that same drug around the time he was killed, certainly raised interesting questions. I would have liked to return to the bathhouse, to have another stab at questioning Jamaica Mary, and to find the prostitute, Alice, whom Vaughan had allegedly assaulted. Yet the proprietor had made it plain that I was no longer welcome on his premises. Was Jamaica Mary responsible for the obeah, as Mrs Grimshaw believed? If I could prove her involvement, then I might get to the truth about Frank Drake’s alibi. Mary’s uneasiness when answering my questions, coupled with her false allegation against me in the bathhouse, suggested she was hiding something.
I decided to give The Dark Angel’s owner, John Monday, a wide berth, at least until I had spoken to his wife, Eleanor. What motive had taken her to Tad’s funeral? Why hadn’t she wanted to be observed there? What did she know about her husband’s business and the secrets of this town? What motive too, had taken the magistrate, Peregrine Child, to London – searching the ministry’s archives, as I had, for The Dark Angel? Given Child’s ambivalence about finding Tad’s killer, his purpose was a puzzle – one I was determined to solve.
First I had a more pressing piece of business. When I reached the High Street in the Broadway, I was pleased to see James Brabazon’s windows standing open. A conversation with that gentleman was long overdue.
Brabazon’s manservant showed me up the stairs to the surgery, where we found his master standing over a steaming kettle. The last time I’d been here, Tad had been lying on that table. It had marked the moment between before and after. I forced my eyes to Brabazon’s amiable face.
‘What a pleasant surprise,’ he said. ‘I was told you had left town.’
The Scotchman looked a little worn around the edges. Stubble darkened his chin and there were shadows beneath his mismatched eyes. Given what I knew of his duplicity, those eyes seemed now to have taken on a Janus-like aspect: one looking outward to the world, the other gazing inwards, a mirror of his secret self.
‘Forgive my appearance,’ he said. ‘I got back from the city late last night to find that Daniel Waterman’s condition had worsened. I took his leg off above the knee in the early hours.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘At some point, I’ll sleep. Was it my tincture for your leg you were wanting?’
‘Actually, I’d like to talk to you about Mr Archer’s inquiry into the massacre on board The Dark Angel.’
Registering my stony expression, his smile faded. ‘Ah, you are upset with me. No doubt because I didn’t mention it myself. Please do not read too much into it. I saw no reason to drag that unpleasant business up again.’
‘Archer was branded with the mark of Monday’s company. You were employed by that company, yet you never saw fit to mention it.’
‘I presumed the brand had been used to implicate us. You cannot think one of us killed him? Why would we mark him with a symbol that could identify us?’
‘To warn others off. Men like me.’
He gave a lopsided grin. ‘That plan’s not working out very well for us now, is it, Captain Corsham?’
Brabazon had sangfroid, I had to give him that. He’d evidently decided the best method to deal with my presence in Deptford was to brazen it out.
‘The killer also murdered and branded two Africans in London in recent days,’ I said. ‘As well as Mr Archer’s sister and her maid.’ It had not escaped my attention that Brabazon had been in London when Proudlock had been killed there. If he only returned late last night, then he could also have been the man Moses Graham and I had encountered at Marylebone.
‘Good heavens,’ he said. ‘Were the women branded too?’
‘No, but as I disturbed the killer he may have been intending to do so.’
‘Did you get a good look at him?’
‘Not his face. He wore a hood.’
‘I am grieved to learn of yet more tragedy.’ Brabazon’s expression was suitably sombre, though I watched his performance with a critic’s scepticism. ‘Yet I don’t see that it has anything to do with The Dark Angel. Archer’s questions were an inconvenience, nothing more.’
‘Y
ou call a prosecution for fraud an inconvenience?’
‘I would, yes. There was no truth in his allegations.’
Thinking about those drowned slaves, I restrained a powerful urge to beat the truth out of him. Instead, I decided to play him at his own game. ‘If there is no merit in it, then you will have no objection to answering a few questions about that voyage?’
He hesitated. ‘I don’t like talking about it, but if it will convince you that you are wasting your time, then I suppose it is a price worth paying.’ He removed the kettle from its brazier and filled a bowl with steaming water. ‘You don’t mind if we talk while I work? I used up my supplies of laudanum on Daniel Waterman last night.’
Brabazon took a red waxed-paper package from a drawer. More opium from the Red House. He added the contents to his bowl, and used a pestle to grind the water and opium to a paste. The story he told me as he worked was much the same version of events told to me by John Monday.
‘Do not think it didn’t cost us, those desperate days at sea. Playing God, deciding who should live and who should die. I tell myself that it was akin to drowning bitches in a litter. You kill the weak in order that the strongest will survive. Yet whilst the Negro is not strictly human, he is not an animal either. Animals do not cry out to their loved ones. I still hear their screams.’
‘You think that? Africans are not strictly human?’
‘The science is clear. The Negro is a stunted form of human existence, more akin to an ape than you or I. Have you read Kircher? No? You should. He posits that there were once many competing species of humans. The Negro, I believe, is the last of our rivals. A few centuries from now they will doubtless die out altogether. In the meantime, I see no reason why we should not harness their labour. Yet it doesn’t follow that I liked to kill them. Or that I would have done so had it not been necessary to preserve the lives of others on board.’
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