Henry’s good mood, which lasted all the way to the slaughterhouse, was lifted even more by the news of the successful and discreet transfer of the Spafford gang to their farmhouse. The eventual demise of Dan Spafford was even better, it being a solution to a niggling problem, though he was required to insist Hawker be patient in the matter of rotting cadavers.

‘The lads will be askin’ to bury the bodies if’n we don’t act quick.’

‘Surely they’re inured to the smell, John?’ was the less than satisfying reply, as Tulkington took a shot at being humorous. ‘Lord knows how they’d be troubled, given they can be more than ripe themselves.’

There was no point in Hawker even hinting at what he thought. Tulkington was ignorant of the men he was denigrating, another mark against him compared to his pa. Acton, though happy to let Hawker command them, had taken the trouble to get to know those who, at one remove, did his bidding. As for the bodies, his employer was never going to be near enough to the smell to be troubled by it.

‘I still want to be sure the way is clear.’

‘This sheriff is one sod on his own, not the Excise and them we make dance to our will.’

‘Then why did he depart Deal by horse yesterday and ride to Dover?’

‘Did he so?’ was all Hawker could say in response.

‘Does it occur to you he could be visiting them to seek out information?’

‘I’s at a loss to know what they could tell him.’

‘We must wait till we’re sure he’s gone. He can’t stay forever but it would be an idea to know of his movements while he’s here.’

‘I can have him trailed, just like Brazier.’

‘Make it so, John.’

Hawker used the local waifs as his eyes and ears, lads who would readily do his bidding, with no shortage willing. Living in an anchorage, with hundreds of vessels coming and going, Deal had dozens of brats living on the streets, while the girls who matched their way of life made their living by selling their bodies. Stunted in growth, immoral to the core, the boys were tenacious survivors, the offspring of uncaring parents, local whores brought to childbirth by visiting sailors or runaways from the countryside around.

Sleeping in doorways or the cemetery of St George’s, they spent most of the day grubbing for or stealing food, trying to pick the pockets of sailors just discharged and drinking gin, if they could filch the means to buy it. There lay the means by which Hawker could employ them, the task of late to keep an eye on a certain naval captain, reporting back on who visited Quebec House, to where he went and to whom he spoke, all for a flask of their chosen spirit. Adding Cottin presented little difficulty, as long as he was in the confines of the town.

‘Now what of Brazier?’

‘Far as I know, there’s been no sign for the last two days.’

‘Is there a way he could avoid being spotted?’

‘Not from the buggers I have on his tail. They’re like rats, everywhere but not seen. Reckon he’s either gone to meet his maker or you’ve seen him off at last.’

Tulkington departed, cheered by what he’d heard, leaving John Hawker in a very different mood. He’d been obliged to lie, though it was not the telling which rankled, but the reminder of having been let down by those very same lot of filthy tykes he’d just been praising. One of them, a bit of a ringleader called Danny, probably full of gin, had failed to see Brazier leaving Quebec House on the evening of the riot. Hawker was still to catch hold of Danny, but a few of his mates had got the clouts he deserved in lieu, which did little to moderate his fury.

The way he had been dragged from Cottington in the dark still festered like an itch he couldn’t scratch, so the desire to avenge it was more than just strong. He could recall every fall, feel every bruise from the rocks he’d been hauled over and hear in his mind each taunt from Brazier’s tars, voices in the dark with no faces clear. Even in distress he had resolved they would pay with their lives and said so, only to be barred from his revenge by Henry Tulkington.

The men he led were of no consequence, but Edward Brazier was a post captain in the King’s Navy. The murder of such a worthy would not pass without stirring up real trouble, maybe even an incursion by the military. It would certainly cause concern amongst those who turned a blind eye to the smuggling trade. They would rush to cover their own backs and who knew what they’d be prepared to sacrifice?

Hawker had ignored him. Just ahead of the mob he’d helped to stir up, with four of his most trusted men armed with clubs, he’d broken into Quebec House only to find the place empty, barring one cove asleep on the top floor, who’d been clubbed unconscious. If Brazier was gone, unless he was dead, it was, for John Hawker, unfinished business and hatred did not blind him to the nature of his enemy: the bastard had proved hard to shift before, so it had to be concluded he was not one to give up in seeking to get to Tulkington’s sister if he still had breath in his body.

On his rounds of the town, he made a point of finding his sewer rats, dispensing the coins needed to provide a flask of gin, telling them to keep a sharp eye out for Brazier still and Cottin now. Then it was on to his real tasks, dropping into various places to confirm orders and hint they’d soon be fulfilled, examine a whole raft of accounts and calculate what was owed to the government, with a quick check to ensure the sums added up.

In his travels John Hawker was ever accosted by locals who wanted him to be aware of their respect. There was also the fact he was a fount of knowledge regarding what was going on in the town, though he was generally guarded in what he passed on, mostly hints which would work to his advantage. He had a good ear too, being trusted, for any hints some folk might be planning a run to France for contraband. Later in the day, he was going to have to go back to Spafford’s farmhouse and ensure things were in order, taking food as well, which required to be bought and part of it would have to go to the captives.

‘Name of Christ,’ he swore. ‘Feedin’ the sods instead of stopping their gobs with brine.’

 

Edward Brazier was moving better. There was still pain, but a good measure of the stiffness, which had made it difficult, had eased and was continuing to do so. Many times he rose to walk about, stretching a left arm till it hurt until sense caused him to cease and make his way back to the sunlit bench. There he took up the earlier diary, to reread the Cottington passages, which produced little to enlighten him: nothing more could be gleaned than had been extracted from the first time.

This drove him to look for earlier clues regarding Venables’ character, there being entries dating from the time he could begin to write in a clear hand. He was not a robust type, given there was much on youthful ailments. Then there was school, intermittently attended for two reasons: money being available to pay for lessons and the needs of the family when it came to getting in crops for subsequent sale. When he was able to partake of lessons, he wrote of his enjoyment when learning and his misery when dealing with his classmates, from which Brazier deduced he was not popular.

That said and reading on, local friends and events were mentioned, games of cricket on the green, the various fairs which coincided with religious festivals and the fun to be had with bear-baiting and cockfighting. The rumbustious nature of elections were described with sheer enjoyment, though there was never much doubt about who would win the Cinque Port of Sandwich: always a senior naval officer, but such a sure candidate was still required to spend on food and drink, to entertain even those who lacked a vote, with a band provided too. It was the life of a class of folk on the rung below yeoman, but above the common labourer.

There was mention of his father who was, by nature, reported as tyrannical and roundly condemned as a brute. Much kinder were his comments on his Dear Mother, who’d suffered, like her son, from violence in the home, stoically borne, which took him back to the passages already twice read. The second journal told him she’d been left to run the smallholding when he went off to America, the father no longer being alive. On return from the war, the workload had fallen to Zachary, especially after his Dear Mother passed away, this being the cause of much written lamentation. Later entries spoke of the contentment he found both in his religion as well as the company of Zachary, who shared his faith. Then it was failing health.

Journals finished, he considered joining Zachary in his labours, pruning his apple trees of any produce which had been attacked by the numerous pests attracted to growing fruit. But the way he’d acted indoors in the morning did not encourage Brazier to think he’d be more forthcoming in the fresh air, not that he had given up any hope of extracting information. He turned his mind once more to ways of reversing matters with Henry Tulkington, the first conclusion not hard to reach: rescuing Elisabeth could not now be done, in any way he could fathom, without violence. The next fact was equally obvious: without Hawker and his men, Tulkington was vulnerable and, in reality, it was the leader not the followers who provided the protection. Take Hawker out of action and many things might be possible.

Deduction was easy, acting upon it much more problematic. It was an axiom of warfare, be it on land or sea, you did not attack your enemy where he was strongest and he could call on numbers, which precluded Hawker’s own backyard of Deal. This led to thoughts of the farmhouse to which he’d taken … what? His own men and maybe Dan Spafford and his crew? There was no way of telling from where he was sitting, but he did know he had little time for them. Whichever way he turned in search of a solution, one fact always intruded, his shortage of the kind of strength he needed. Spafford was Tulkington’s enemy, which should have meant anyone so inclined was a potential ally, but it was the same lot he’d been forced to take with him to Cottington and nothing he’d observed hinted at trust.

Dutchy had insisted no approach could be made in daylight without being seen a goodly distance away, so surprise would be impossible, which left the night. Given the failures of his previous excursions, it was not a notion to readily appeal except in one sense: there was no alternative, the other choice being to do nothing, which meant going to see for himself how the land lay, in pain or not. Anything attempted would have to set off from Zachary’s. Should he tell his host or leave him in the dark, a thought which caused Brazier to wonder at himself: he was proposing to seek information from him, while at the same time contemplating concealment of what he might be about to do.

Seeing his Good Samaritan coming in from the orchard, tellingly without the habitual smile, he picked up the relevant book so as to have it open at what was now a well-thumbed page. There was, once more, a lack of eye contact, which would not serve, obliging him to press. Either information would be provided or he would receive a blank refusal.

‘Zachary.’

He was reluctant to respond but he did stop. ‘Sir?’

‘I need your help.’ The eyes went to the journal, open in Brazier’s hand, the point obvious. ‘I have to rescue someone and I’m not sure it can be done without I know more of the late Mr Venables and his relationship with a certain person residing at Cottington Court.’

‘And if I say I cannot talk of him, sir?’

‘I would find it hard to believe.’ The diary was lifted up to eye height. ‘Perhaps if I was to read to you some of the entries, it might help.’

‘I’d prefer readings from the Bible, sir,’ came with a hint of forward movement.

Brazier ignored it, challenging Zachary to walk on past, which he could not do, his curiosity overcoming his disinclination to engage. He listened as the first meetings, then the growing friendship were described, the days spent together on country rides, added to the deepening affection, looking Zachary in the eye when he finished.

‘They were extremely close and it’s chronicled here. Yet Dear Sam went off without a word of farewell. Let me read the passage to you.’

Which he did, pausing to look up at the end of each sentence, finishing with the last word of Venables about saying prayers, while hoping there was no need.

‘What do you take from such an entry?’ Nothing, not even a shrug, which had Brazier think he was a man to avoid playing cards with. ‘I will tell you what was vouchsafed to me by the lady I’m intent on marrying. Samuel Lovell’s wife says no more than her husband rode out one day, seemingly in good spirits, never to return. This was on the very same day he arranged to meet his friend for some kind of special outing. Then the final entry. What was it that Mr Venables feared?’

‘Look to the date, sir. How would I know?’

‘I don’t say you were around when these events took place. What I wonder is this. Did the man with whom you shared this place ever speak to you of it, the man who had no desire to go near Cottington Court, the very place where I was shot?’

‘He named it as the devil’s lair, the home of Beelzebub. Knowing such a thing, no man would risk his soul by going close.’

‘He never gave you the real reason?’

‘Is Satan not real enough, sir?’

‘To some but not to me. Did he add something more?’

‘He did, on the understanding I would speak of it to no one. And sir, much as I respect you, I will not break such an oath.’

‘Which in normal circumstances I would admire.’

‘Not now?’

‘I shall ask no more, Zachary, and forgive me for pressing you, not least because I have a deep suspicion I owe you my life.’

A glance to the heavens, with the sun going down, was enough to lay the praise where Zachary was sure it lay. ‘Your companions should return soon. I’ll go and bank up the fire.’

 

It was not an admission but a mistake and one Henry should have seen as possible. He had failed to note the person who took in the post was Grady. Since letters had to be paid for on receipt, money would only be forthcoming if the addressee was resident at the house. Thus, he knew of the two letters addressed to his master’s sister, including the most recent, but had no idea they had been kept from her. Therefore, his remark, delivered to Elisabeth while helping her to disrobe when she came in from her morning walk, was entirely innocent in wondering if Mr Dirley, whom he remembered fondly from her father’s day, was in good health. The reply threw him slightly.

‘Why are you asking me?’

The servant knew immediately he had misspoken. Despite his years of service and innate discretion, he could not avoid a cast of the eyes, which indicated his discomfort. This caused Elisabeth to look in rapid succession towards both the staircase and the doors off the hallway. Seeing no one, her voice dropped to a whisper.

‘Is there something you’re trying to tell me?’

‘No, Miss Elisabeth.’

Yet he pointedly glanced towards the hall table on which post would be left for later distribution. Holding Grady’s eye was difficult when he was busy avoiding hers, but there was some residual spark in the man, a touch of rebellion surfacing, which had him say in a sonorous tone,

‘I would be grateful if you would send him my best wishes, when you reply.’

The combination allowed her to make the connection. A reply clearly meant there had to be incoming correspondence, obviously something she’d never seen. Elisabeth had never collected her own mail, waiting for it to be brought to her and besides, it had not been a regular daily occurrence, though it occurred to her now she’d had none for some time.

Heart beating like a kettle drum, Elisabeth replied, ‘I most certainly shall.’

‘Shall what?’ Sarah Lovell enquired as she came down the stairs, not in any demanding way, more a general query.

‘Keep an eye on the weather, Aunt Sarah,’ was desperate and sounded feeble to her niece, yet it needed to be carried through. ‘This spell of good weather is not going to last.’

‘Will there be anything else, Miss Elisabeth?’

‘Nothing, Grady. And thank you for your concern.’

Sarah Lovell was frowning, the look which went with it aimed at Grady, not her. This was followed by a hand held up, indicating she should wait, which lasted until he went through the door to the servant quarters.

‘My dear,’ was very quiet. ‘I think you should say to Grady to have a care how he addresses you. Indeed, it should be made plain to all the servants.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘I think Henry would not wish to see you spoken of in such a manner.’ Eyes were raised towards the ceiling, so what was implied was obvious. ‘After all, you have not been Miss Elisabeth for a very long time.’

If the reply was mischievous, and it was, there was nothing in Elisabeth’s expression to hint at levity. ‘Are you suggesting he addresses me as Mrs Langridge?’

‘You know I don’t mean anything of the sort.’

‘Then if you refer to whom I suspect, you tell them. I’m sure it will do wonders for the esteem in which you’re held.’

Elisabeth didn’t wait to enjoy her aunt’s discomfort; the servants disliked her and she knew it, though it had to be said, in her world, being popular with those below stairs did not come as a recommendation, quite the reverse. Even if she’d wanted to drive the point home, the need to be alone took precedence, to wonder if there had indeed been a letter from her Uncle Dirley and if there had, what it contained. If it was being kept from her it could only be for one reason: Henry’s desire to cut her off from outside contact. Not that realisation solved the dilemma of what to do about it.

 

She would have been even more concerned if she’d been looking over her brother’s shoulders later in the day, reading the letter he was writing to Dirley, informing him Elisabeth and her new husband had decided to visit Paris and had taken the Dover cartel to Calais …

Henry, as he signed it, knew it would only hold Dirley for a while, but hold him off he must. The time would come for the truth, but not just yet. Then it would be fitting he be reminded of his place in the scheme of things and made aware of who was in charge.