Blood & Sugar

by Laura Shepherd-Robinson

  ‘And now he seeks forgiveness for his crimes?’

  ‘Only in words. Archer would have demanded a higher price, I think. His testimony in court, perhaps.’

  ‘I cannot imagine Vaughan would have agreed readily to that. He might have ended up on a hangman’s rope. Yet if the whore’s experience is anything to go by, Archer’s refusal to forgive easily would have angered him. Do you think in Drake we have the wrong man?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I gazed up at the narrow strip of stars above the alley. ‘But I think we need to find Evan Vaughan.’

  *

  We parted at the end of the alleys, and I walked back to the Noah’s Ark, thinking about Vaughan. It was possible that he really had gone away to recuperate. It was even possible that he was dead – killed, not by a jealous husband but by one of his officers to stop him talking to Tad. But I didn’t think so.

  The seadog had said that Monday would run into fire for Vaughan. He’d saved Monday’s life. Perhaps murder was a solution Monday couldn’t countenance. Perhaps instead Vaughan had been concealed somewhere to keep him away from Tad. I had seen Monday buying opium in the Red House, and whatever Brabazon said, he didn’t strike me as the stripe of man likely to use it. Perhaps Evan Vaughan had never left Deptford at all.

  I tried to develop this strand of thought, but exhaustion overwhelmed me. When I reached the Noah’s Ark, I went upstairs to my room. There on the floor, inside the door, I discovered a letter. I broke the black seal, studying the handwriting with little surprise, the familiar clutch of fear’s cold hand upon the back of my neck.

  ILE CUT OWT YUR EYES, NEGRO LUVVER, AND FEED THEM TO THE DEPTFORD DOGS. GET OWT OF TOWN. I WONT BE TELLIN YOU AGIN.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  The scream startled me awake. My heart thudding, I leaped from the bed. I heard it again, a woman’s cry. I hurried to the window and pulled aside the curtain, blinking in the sudden flood of daylight. Brabazon was running up the stairs to the stable-loft. I dressed swiftly and went to find out what was going on.

  I found Mrs Grimshaw inside the stable-loft door, her breathing coming in heaving gulps. I presumed it had been her cries I’d heard. Nathaniel sat on the rocking chair, his head in his hands. Brabazon was bending over Daniel Waterman on the bed. Waterman’s eyes were open, but they held a deathly stillness.

  The surgeon gave me a nod. ‘A sad day, sir. The strain of the amputation must have been too much. His heart gave out overnight.’

  I stood by his side, gazing down at the boy with despair. There had been so much I’d hoped that he could tell me. ‘You’re sure it was his heart?’

  ‘I’ve seen it happen before, usually in older patients.’ Brabazon shook his head. ‘I had such high hopes for his recovery.’

  I didn’t believe it. It was too convenient. ‘Perhaps someone didn’t want him to recover.’

  Nathaniel’s face was white, his eyes red-rimmed. ‘What are you saying, sir? That someone killed him? Why would they do that?’

  The door opened, and Peregrine Child walked in. Behind him I glimpsed Mrs Grimshaw’s stable boy, who had evidently been dispatched to fetch him here. The lad lingered, probably hoping for a penny from the magistrate. Child approached the bed, grim-faced.

  ‘What has happened here, Mr Brabazon? I asked to be appraised of this boy’s condition.’

  He must have given that order yesterday, after I’d told him about Drake’s assault on Waterman. I wondered again if a conscience lurked somewhere beneath Child’s ambivalent exterior.

  Brabazon repeated his explanation about Waterman’s heart.

  ‘I knew his father,’ the magistrate said. ‘He was practically a child himself. God damn it.’

  I looked around the room for anything to support my suspicions. It all seemed much as it had last night.

  ‘Have you even examined him properly?’ I said to Brabazon. ‘Look, there’s blood on that pillow. Is that usual when a heart gives out?’

  Mrs Grimshaw stopped crying long enough to peer at the pillow. Nathaniel looked away.

  ‘Maybe someone thought Waterman would be upset about losing his leg and his livelihood,’ I went on. ‘Maybe they feared he’d talk to me, and made sure he wouldn’t.’

  ‘You never stop, do you, sir?’ Brabazon said. ‘There was nothing the boy could have told you, or anyone else, because your conjectures are entirely fanciful.’

  Child picked up the blood-stained pillow and examined it. ‘Well, Brabazon? Is it normal?’

  ‘Whether it is normal or not is beside the point. This boy had just undergone an amputation – the trauma to the body …’

  ‘That wasn’t what I asked,’ Child said.

  ‘You could always send for a physician from London to examine him,’ I said. ‘I’d gladly pay.’

  ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’ Brabazon made dampening gestures. ‘If it is Mr Child’s wish, I will examine him further.’

  I watched over his shoulder, not trusting him at all. Waterman’s face was bluish white, the skin dotted with faint red marks. The whites of his eyes were also covered in little red spots. Brabazon prised the boy’s jaw open, and with the aid of a stick from his bag, drew out the tongue. It was swollen and lacerated and in one place it looked as if Waterman had almost bitten right through it.

  ‘My father died from his heart,’ Mrs Grimshaw said. ‘I don’t remember his eyes looking like that. And what in the name of God did he do to his tongue?’

  Brabazon frowned. ‘On closer examination, I believe Captain Corsham is right. The signs are consistent with suffocation. I think someone held that pillow over his face.’

  ‘Mercy.’ Mrs Grimshaw started weeping again. Nathaniel stared hard at the floor.

  Brabazon glanced from me to Child. ‘I think someone should inform Mr Stokes.’

  I felt a grim sense of satisfaction. I’d had to drag Brabazon’s diagnosis out of him and I knew he wouldn’t have confirmed foul play at all, had he not known that I would have consulted other physicians about those symptoms. Brabazon was not an easy man to pin down, but for once I had.

  I took a last look at Daniel Waterman, and felt a twinge of pity. He had drowned those infant Africans, but he had killed because poverty and slavery had forced his hand. I left the stable-loft vowing retribution.

  *

  Three hours later we were assembled in the mayor’s private study. Stokes, Cinnamon and Scipio – with the footman, Abraham, in attendance. Mrs Grimshaw and Nathaniel. Peregrine Child and Brabazon. John Monday and his wife. The only people missing were Frank Drake and the elusive Captain Vaughan.

  The study was painted a vibrant shade of Tuscan red, the walls hung with pictures of Pompeii and the Coliseum in Rome. On a table between the long windows was a model of Stokes’s proposed dock, complete with miniature Guineamen and tiny shipping crates the size of dice. I could see that it would be many times larger than the current dock. If Stokes’s plans ever came to fruition, they’d transform Deptford.

  Monday’s gaze fell on me. ‘Why is he here?’

  He had a nasty-looking scratch down one cheek, and I thought immediately of Tad’s sister, Amelia, fighting for her life. As a West India merchant, Monday would presumably have been in London for the lobby’s meeting the night Moses Graham and I had been followed at Marylebone.

  ‘Captain Corsham saw Daniel Waterman late last night,’ Child said.

  ‘Yes, my wife told me. Nevertheless, this is surely a Deptford matter?’

  ‘He has a point,’ Stokes said. ‘Mr Child?’

  To my surprise, Child stood his ground. ‘I want to hear from everyone who was with the boy. Who found the body?’

  ‘I did.’ Nathaniel’s voice was tight with emotion. ‘I came back from my shift at the warehouses about a quarter after six this morning. I didn’t look too closely and just lay down beside him. I only realized he was dead when I awoke a few hours later. He wasn’t breathing. Then I saw his face.’

  ‘Who was the last person to s
ee him alive?’

  ‘I believe that must have been Miss Cinnamon,’ Mrs Monday said.

  Cinnamon flushed under our scrutiny. ‘As we were leaving last night, Mrs Monday went to talk to Mrs Grimshaw about Mr Waterman’s condition. I tidied up, and then met her downstairs in the yard. Abraham escorted us back to the Broadway.’

  ‘My footman,’ Stokes said. Abraham bowed.

  ‘Did you see anything suspicious?’ I asked Abraham.

  ‘No, sir,’ he said sullenly.

  ‘Was the door to the loft locked overnight?’ Child asked.

  ‘We haven’t locked it since Danny came to stay with us,’ Nathaniel said. ‘Mr Brabazon needed to come and go, as well as those who came to sit with him.’

  ‘So anyone could have walked in,’ Stokes said. ‘It seems plain to me that burglary is the most likely explanation. Waterman probably woke up and the villain panicked.’

  ‘This is hogwash,’ I said, appealing to Child. ‘Waterman was the only member of The Dark Angel’s crew still in Deptford who wasn’t implicated in the insurance fraud. He was just following orders and made no personal profit. That made him a threat to these men here. He’d talked to Thaddeus Archer before, and someone wanted to stop him from talking to me.’

  Monday brought his fist down on the arm of his chair. ‘There was no fraud. This boy’s death is a tragedy, as were the deaths of the slaves on board that ship, not to mention that of Mr Archer himself. But only a man intent on mischief would link them together.’

  Brabazon seemed to have recovered his self-assurance now he was under Stokes’s roof. ‘I have told Captain Corsham this, but like Mr Archer before him, he refuses to listen.’

  Child held up a hand for silence. ‘Did Waterman say anything at all last night? Upon this topic or any other?’

  ‘He talked a lot about knives,’ Mrs Monday said, with a little shiver. ‘Mr Brabazon’s name was mentioned.’

  ‘He was delirious,’ Brabazon said, ‘consumed with nightmares about the operation to remove his leg.’

  ‘What nonsense is this?’ Mrs Grimshaw said suddenly. ‘All this talk of dead slaves. Why won’t anyone speak the truth? We all know who killed him, the same man who attacked him before. That filthy louse Frank Drake.’

  ‘Now hold on, Marilyn, there is no evidence of that,’ Child said.

  ‘Hold on nothing, Perry Child. You know what he’s like better than anyone. A blustering bully, who thought nothing of breaking a young man’s leg. Now he’s come back to finish the job he started. He was probably scared Waterman would tell you who attacked him and he’d end up in gaol.’

  From what I’d seen, Drake would have had to murder the royal princes in front of the Horseguards before Child would act against him. Yet Drake was certainly a suspect in my eyes.

  ‘Drake may be innocent, he may be guilty,’ I said. ‘Why not bring him here and question him? Then we can find out.’

  ‘Well, Child?’ Stokes said. ‘Is that what you want? You are the magistrate of this town. You have a free hand.’

  The insinuation in his tone suggested quite the contrary.

  Child stared hard at the model of the dock. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘A burglary seems the most likely explanation. I’ll issue a reward and see if anyone comes to claim it.’

  For a brief moment I’d thought he might do the right thing. I saw little point in arguing further, and Mrs Grimshaw evidently felt the same, muttering darkly beneath her breath. Child’s verdict pronounced, the meeting soon broke up.

  As we were filing out of the room, everyone gave me a wide berth, save for Scipio. He didn’t speak to me, but he slipped a note into my hand.

  I waited until I was out on the drive to read it. I am making inquiries about Frank Drake. I’ll come to your room at the Noah’s Ark after nine. S.

  I couldn’t deny that Scipio’s help was bearing fruit, and I chastised myself for my earlier suspicions about his motives. That was the trouble with this place. Distrust was contagious.

  Child had stayed behind to talk to the mayor, and I waited for him on the drive. The footman, Abraham, stood on the steps, watching me, until the magistrate emerged.

  ‘Do you think your friend, Waterman’s late father, would believe that justice was served here today?’ I asked him. ‘Drake’s alibi is a lie, by the way, but I think you know that.’

  His voice was weary. ‘Drake didn’t do this. Nor did he kill Archer.’

  ‘Because he’s innocent? Or because he’s your brother-in-law?’

  He lifted a finger. ‘Careful, sir.’

  I contemplated his pink, be-veined face. ‘I can’t work you out, Mr Child. You don’t want me dead, but what do you want? Sometimes I think you want me gone. Sometimes I think you want me to do your job for you. The only thing I know for certain is that you want to protect Frank Drake.’

  He looked beyond me to the gate. Bees buzzed in the lavender beds. ‘Right now,’ he said, ‘I want a drink.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  We made an odd procession walking back along the wooded lane from Stokes’s villa to Deptford Broadway. I wanted to talk to Nathaniel, but he had marched off ahead, plainly deeply affected by his friend’s death. I decided I’d look for him at the warehouse later tonight.

  Mrs Grimshaw and Peregrine Child walked abreast, perhaps settling their differences over Frank Drake. Mr and Mrs Monday walked behind, together, but with distance between them. Once he took her arm when she stumbled, and I noticed how swiftly she took it back. Theirs was not a happy marriage. I knew the signs.

  My bad leg pulling, I caught up with Brabazon, who walked alone.

  ‘I hope you are done with your diagnoses, Captain,’ he greeted me. ‘Or I will be out of a job.’ His smile looked as if it was starting to strain his mouth.

  ‘Daniel Waterman said something curious last night,’ I said. ‘He mentioned a nigger with a knife. I wondered if you’d heard him say anything like that before?’

  ‘Yes, several times. There is no great mystery there, I think. On Waterman’s first voyage, the one we have heard so much about lately, one of the female slaves put a curse upon Frank Drake. It was all perfectly harmless, of course, but the Negroes believe in the obeah themselves and it can be rather intimidating when they are in full sway. Drake is a superstitious creature and it distracted him. The Negress grabbed his knife and tried to kill him. It was Waterman who saved his life. Yet he was rather shaken by the incident. Life on board a slave ship takes some getting used to.’

  ‘Was the woman who attacked him one of the slaves you later drowned?’

  He pursed his lips. ‘No, she was already dead by then. Drake crucified her from the mizzen-mast. He said it was the correct way to kill a witch. I tried to put a stop to it. It was barbaric and it unsettled the slaves. But Vaughan can be superstitious too.’

  I stared at him in disbelief, appalled both by the act and by the casual manner in which such matters were discussed in this town. We had reached the top of the High Street. Ahead of us the Mondays had parted company; Mr Monday continuing on towards Deptford Strand, Mrs Monday heading in the direction of their home.

  ‘An interesting woman,’ Brabazon said. ‘Looks like she wouldn’t say boo to a goose, but she insisted on staying when I took off Waterman’s leg. She held the boy’s hand throughout. Many women couldn’t have done it – many men too – but I honestly believe that if circumstances had demanded it, she would have taken up the saw herself.’

  ‘Mr Monday ordered you and Drake not to touch Archer,’ I said. ‘Did he make a similar proscription regarding Evan Vaughan? You must have been worried. Vaughan losing his mind, gaining a conscience.’

  Brabazon’s smile faded. ‘We had nothing to be worried about. As for Vaughan, Monday would never have needed to make such a proscription. Everyone knows how Monday would react if Vaughan were threatened or harmed in any way.’

  ‘Torture a man? Cut his throat?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ He bowed stiffly. ‘Goo
d day to you, Captain Corsham.’

  I walked on towards the Strand. Ahead of me on the road, John Monday was striding with singular purpose. When we were about halfway to the river, he turned off the main track into the grounds of the bright white church I’d noticed on my previous visit to the Broadway. I went after him.

  St Paul’s was one of the finest parish churches I had ever seen: a pretty, Baroque confection of soaring pilasters, Venetian windows and a cylindrical steeple. I could hear raised voices in the churchyard, and I followed the sound, looking for Monday. Instead, to my surprise, I found Nathaniel, talking to a tall, pasty-faced gentleman in a red silk coat. It took me a moment to realize where I’d seen him before. He was the same gentleman I’d seen with Nathaniel outside the warehouse, on my last visit to Deptford. I wondered if Nathaniel had walked here so quickly because he needed to get to this meeting.

  The gentleman pushed Nathaniel in the chest, and he fell back against the church wall. ‘Damnable wretch.’

  Nathaniel stood his ground, though he looked a little scared. He said something to the gentleman I didn’t catch. The man pushed him again, his face blotched pink and white.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I said. ‘Nathaniel, are you hurt?’

  They turned as one, faces contorted with alarm. The man pulled his hat low, and walked swiftly past me, back towards the street. Nathaniel was breathing heavily. I went to his side.

  ‘What was that all about? If you are in trouble, I might be able to help.’

  ‘It’s nothing, sir,’ he muttered. ‘Just a passing stranger. I asked him if he’d seen Jago, and he turned nasty.’

  It was obviously a lie. I presumed the argument must have something to do with whatever it was I’d witnessed between them at the dock. ‘Well, if he or anyone else turns nasty again, you come to me.’

  He nodded without much conviction, and sank down on a tombstone. ‘Ah, Danny.’ He gazed up at the sky.

  My voice softened. ‘I’m sorry. I know what it’s like to lose a friend. I want to find the person who did this to him.’