Sitting twiddling his thumbs all day was not John Cottin’s way. He had paid for and dealt with the correspondence from his Westerham office, letters which had arrived early, mostly enquiries from other districts of Kent, none of which were serious enough to require his presence, but as yet nothing from William Pitt. Allowances had to be made, since it was to be routed through his office and sent on under a new cover to avoid his making contact becoming public. Garlick served him luncheon, in his usual way, probing to see if anything had occurred worth tucking away, only to lay out the last course of cheese visibly disappointed; Cottin refused to respond to his enquiries about the mail he’d received or to relate anything regarding his supposed trip to Dover.
Feeling the need for air, he decided on a walk, first along Beach Street, which was just as named, a twin row of weather-battered stone houses either side of a narrow roadway, those on the west side containing a surprising number of taverns: every corner seemed to house a drinking den. Anything else, on both sides, seemed tumbledown constructs, with bits of wooden extensions added in a random fashion to an original building, the whole showing signs of dilapidation. These clearly provided living space for multiple families, being full to the brim with noisy human occupation, seeming more akin to crowded rookeries. This spoke to a man like John Cottin of as much criminality here as in the similar slum dwellings he’d been taken to see on a short visit to London.
Between each building backing on to the shore, a narrow alleyway provided access to the strand so he, more than once, strolled down to stand on the sloping pebbles, there to marvel at the sheer quantity of folk involved in the activities necessary to serve the massed vessels in the anchorage. Drying fishing nets, lobster pots and crab creels told of another occupation, no doubt catches sold from the tables heaving with produce on the street behind. These were manned by a particular breed: thick-armed and broad-beamed women, generally toothless, with raucous voices, spouting foul language, who looked tougher than their menfolk.
Further wandering took him back down to the Lower Valley Road and, in moving to pass the Old Playhouse, he observed it was open. Curious, he wandered past the two club-bearing toughs guarding the entrance, neither of whom spared him a glance. The room just inside and to the left contained numerous tables, at which a few men were playing cards, others merely drinking and talking. He took a seat intent on just sitting and observing, quickly approached by a serving girl, who took his order for a flagon of wine.
There was much pleasure to be had for a man like Cottin in examining his fellow humans in such a setting, the game being to seek to place something of their nature and occupations, also perhaps to try and discern what could be their secrets. Sea captains (he assumed their rank) were easy and numerous − there was an archaic quality to their dress, as if they feared not to be identified: long waistcoats and wigs, oversized hats, heavily cuffed coats of various blues and reds, with many a highly polished brass button to hint at prosperity. Others he took to be local tradesfolk and it was diverting to seek to place their trade by the sobriety or showiness of their garb.
Such examination ceased as Saoirse appeared in the doorway, looking, if anything, more beautiful than she had in her own parlour. She was popular, which came as no surprise, nor did the number of her customers willing to engage her in conversation. But before entering, she’d seen him in her survey of the room; when it came to moving around, would he be subjected, as others were, to her undoubted charms, or deliberately ignored?
After his interview, Cottin had left her with a feeling of disquiet, sure of there being things she was not willing to divulge, not that he could pin down anything definite. If the proprietor passed him by now, the truth of the supposition would be confirmed. If she did stop to exchange a few words, it would give him a chance to question her in a more informal setting, which might reveal something of interest. So without seeking to catch her eye, he kept her location marked as he slowly sipped his wine until she approached his table.
‘Mr Cottin, you do the Old Playhouse great honour.’
‘I’m sure you say the same to all your guests.’
The smile was engaging, the Irish lilt of her voice enchanting. ‘Sure, only to those making their first call.’
For a man not at ease in the company of the fair sex − he had a tendency to stutter − Cottin surprised himself in the articulacy of what came from him next. ‘I don’t suppose this extends to sharing a glass of wine with them?’
He was not to know the agreement, as well as her taking a chair, was driven by curiosity: Saoirse was as eager to pump him as he was to examine and compare their previous encounter. Cottin’s problem was what to say next, this leading to a hiatus accompanied by a near blush. The words which emerged, when he broke it, were singularly inappropriate.
‘Heard from Captain Brazier at all?’
‘I have not,’ came with a disarming smile.
Having chosen the wrong avenue, there was no choice but to continue and, in truth, it was proper he should: duty came first. ‘I nearly managed to get hold of one of the men who occupied your property. He was staying at the Navy Yard along with Captain Brazier and a trio of others, but he was the only one left there. A blackamoor, according to Admiral Braddock’s clerk.’
The response had an air of vague memory. ‘I seem to recall he had such a fellow as a servant.’
‘Well he was a slippery cove. Ran off before I could question him.’
‘A strange thing to do.’
‘Is it, Miss Riorden? It seems everyone is avoiding me, including Brazier himself, which is a pity, as I feel it is he, and he alone, who can properly advance my enquiries, and perhaps he should do so for his own well-being.’
‘I fail to see your meaning?’
‘Really? What if I were to say to you, given the rumours regarding an association with William Pitt, that he was surely the intended victim of the riot?’
No reply, just a small sideways tilt of the head as if to say, ‘You may be right.’
‘Then, is it not also the case, his speaking to me may offer some protection? Anyone wishing him harm will know we have spoken but not what was said.’
The fellow, short of stature and slim, who appeared in the doorway, stopped dead, filling the space and staring hard at Cottin. This obliged the sheriff to look in his direction, in turn causing Saoirse to turn round. Much to his annoyance, she immediately stood up, bestowing on him another smile, one hinting at regret.
‘I have matters to attend to, Mr Cottin. Enjoy your wine.’
She went to the door and the fellow still framed there. After a quick verbal exchange of some kind, what came next was pealing laughter before, with linked arms, they disappeared.
Vincent Flaherty was mightily thrown when he found out who Saoirse had been sitting with. His face must have given away his feelings, for Saoirse laughed at both him and what she knew to be misplaced jealousy. Yet he felt he had cause, in seeing the same fellow who’d been an early morning visitor, not named but immediately taken upstairs just days past. On another occasion he might have got a wigging for his suspicions, just before being shown the way out to the street, but not this day. Instead he was led to the same private quarters, though any hopes raised of the familiarity he craved were soon dashed when up came the subject of Edward Brazier.
‘This Cottin has got the right of it.’
‘He’s safe where he is, Saoirse, well away from Deal and no one knowing but us.’
The response was larded with irony. ‘Sure, you’ll be telling me he’ll be stayin’ there and letting bygones be bygones.’
‘You’re right; soon as he’s fit enough, he’ll go after his lady again. He as good as told me so.’
‘Which means it might be an advantage if it’s known he’s talked to the sheriff.’
Flaherty could see immediately what she was driving at: if Edward wouldn’t give up and appeared back in Deal, it was highly likely Tulkington would try even harder to either drive him to leave or to find another way to have him killed. But throw such a highly placed law officer into the mix and anybody seeking to act would have to be damned careful.
‘I think he should be told what we’re thinking. Then he can make up his own mind.’
‘You seem very concerned for him.’
This was as much a question as a statement of the obvious and it came with a look that failed to disguise its true purpose: what are you feeling for Brazier? Saoirse knew Vincent carried a torch for her, one which no amount of amused refutation seemed to dent. In part it was her own fault he persisted in what was futile.
‘I think of Edward as a friend and one in need of help. I think you should go to him and recommend he make contact.’
‘I’m to be your messenger?’ was uttered with a degree of pique.
‘Are you suggesting I go in your place? You have the time for this, I do not.’
He would agree, Saoirse knew it, and she wondered if she was abusing what should be no more than another friendship. But how could she help how Vincent felt?
‘And I would say soonest would be best.’ Saoirse faked a sudden thought. ‘It might be a notion to take his men, Joe and Cocky, with you.’
And for this she had a strong motive. Logan was no problem, but blackamoors were few and far between in Deal. Joe Lascelles, coming and going from the Old Playhouse, was too obviously risky for him, but also for her.
When he came back to full consciousness, a drowsy Edward Brazier put aside any temptation to indulge himself with another drop of tincture of laudanum: he knew too well it was addictive, having been warned off it by his father. He’d also met many, both at sea and ashore, who were slave to the opiate. He recalled the balm his father concocted, one which the Navy Yard surgeon had also administered after his beating, a wonderful salve for pain, though the notion of acquiring some was akin to asking for the moon.
Zachary had got Dutchy and Peddler chopping wood, probably the sound which had roused him. Stiffly upright, he took a deep drink of water, necessary with a drug-induced thirst. This slaked, he went to exchange a few words with the woodcutters, before passing on to where Zachary was mending the netting round his vegetable plot, set up to keep out rabbits. Idle conversation about cultivation established he had rigged snares on the route the creatures took from their burrow to his patch, which provided food as well as security, while some old cracked crockery filled with ale served to keep at bay the slugs.
It was mid-afternoon and warm, with the buzz and sight of insect life pleasurable. Zachary was easy to converse with, as long as a certain subject was avoided. Given Brazier’s background, and the parental possession of a kitchen garden, there was a great deal which could be shared regarding planting, growing and protecting. Yet, with the way his mind was working, he was unable to stay off the sensitive topic entirely.
‘Was Mr Venables a gardener?’ The shoulders stiffened at the name, no immediate reply being forthcoming. ‘There’s no hint in his diaries.’
‘The plot was kept by his mother. I took it on after she passed away.’
‘You had a good life together, I take it, with reasonable comfort?’
‘We were favoured by God’s abundance most years and wondered at our sins in those less fruitful.’
‘I cannot help wondering what Mr Venables would say, if I’d been able to tell him what I told you. Surely it would have confirmed what he thought of Cottington Court. It might even have caused him to tell me everything he knew, everything I think he told you.’
‘I swore an oath on the Good Book.’
‘I wonder if the God we worship would want us to use what we know to fight evil, which would make any oath, however sworn, worthy of breaking.’ A grunt. ‘I also wonder, given my own experience, if Samuel Lovell didn’t just ride off one day and not return. The journals suggest something bad happened. I think it may be the case he was disposed of, for what reason I do not know, but I’m prepared to guess.’
Zachary stood up to stretch but he would not look at Brazier.
‘The Lord will judge those who commit such sins.’
Brazier was not going to say his own conviction did not extend to such a belief. There was much about the Anglican faith to which he happily subscribed, the major festivals especially. But his father had been a sceptic on religion, if not rabid, one who took exception to some of the more fanciful notions advanced by the clergy, and Brazier had inherited this scepticism, having, among others, a limited credence in the notion of Judgement Day.
‘You do not think those who sin should pay in life. Let me tell you what I came across once at sea, Zachary: a ship full of people of your race, kept in appalling conditions, deprived of food, water and enough space to lie down, lying in their own excrement, men and women together, the latter no doubt playthings for the slavers.’
‘I have heard of this and thank God I was born into slavery, not transported as my forbearers must have been.’
‘What of those doing the transporting, does your deep faith run to forgiveness of such people, leaving retribution to God? What of the man who was master to my man Joe, who was so afraid of what he would face for drawing white blood, he risked swimming in waters where he had more chance of drowning than surviving?’
It had been a whole two years before Joe told Brazier his story, when HMS Diomede was on her way home and he was sure he was safe.
‘If we had not had a boat in the water, there to observe the trim of the ship as we shifted stores, Joe would have died, a victim as much as those I found aboard the slave ship. I wanted to string up the crew and release the slaves. How would God judge such an act?’
There was no joy in making Zachary uncomfortable, but there was a need.
‘Would you, if you could smite them, not do so? If I was to tell you I can get justice for myself and perhaps even for the man Mr Venables so revered, would you not see your oath as breakable?’
Zachary straightened up again to look Brazier right in the eye, this followed by a glance over his shoulder. ‘Rider coming, sir.’
And there was Vincent Flaherty, on his heels Cocky and Joe, enough to bring the probing to an end. Yet it had not been entirely wasted, there being things Zachary, in his bodily reactions, had not denied. There was something odd about the relationship between Lovell and Venables, one not too hard to take a stab at, which was the truth he thought Zachary was protecting. So be it: that was something to which Brazier was indifferent.
He moved away to close with Vincent, who once dismounted, took from his saddlebag a mahogany writing case and handed it over, with the information it had come from Saoirse. Also passed on was the fact she’d been talking to the High Sheriff again and what their thinking was.
‘Hence the means to write. He’s lodged at the Three Kings and neither of us reckoned it a good place to talk. But if you drop him a note for a meeting somewhere else, say my yard, then it lessens the risk of it getting about.’
‘How little you know Garlick.’
‘For all love, no one’s saying you should put your name on it. Leave it blank and I’ll see it delivered.’
‘Perhaps. Come with me, I want to show you something.’
There was no waiting for agreement, Brazier was striding towards the byre and behind it the pile of manure. Once there, the three bundles were pointed out, who they were and how he had come by them, in the middle of which Vincent called down divine intervention and crossed himself.
‘The question now is what to do with them. You coming here has helped me to see a possibility.’
‘Which is?’
‘Dump them in St George’s churchyard tonight, to be found in the morning. Let’s see what your sheriff makes of that.’
‘What makes you think it will aid you?’
‘I told you, one of the corpses is Harry Spafford. The last time Deal saw him alive he was being dragged off by John Hawker, witnessed by Dutchy and half the town. Harry’s father and Trotter were known to be Hawker’s rivals in smuggling, so who will be held to account for them being murdered if not Hawker?’
‘Whatever is implied will be denied without proof.’
‘Even if I add the name of Upton?’
‘And where he came to you from, surely?’
‘I’ll hold back on that, for use later. You may be right about the lack of proof, and there’s no doubt Tulkington has the town in his pocket. But there’s a saying you will have heard of, Vincent, which is this. If you want to wake a beast, you must first rattle the cage.’
‘The letter to the sheriff?’
‘Bring the case indoors and I shall pen it now, but I shan’t meet with him yet, that will come later. What he wants is a name and this I can give him, added to how Upton happened to be in Quebec House: my extending charity to a dismissed servant, but no more.’
‘I don’t perceive the purpose.’
‘You will in time, Vincent, but for now think on this. Tulkington will soon find out I’ve revealed Upton’s name and I am guessing he’ll think the sheriff knows from where he was dismissed. What if he tries to find out?’
This was greeted with a mystified shake of the head and Flaherty was not really enlightened when Brazier added. ‘In battle at sea, Vincent, it is vital to gain the weather gauge, to have the wind in your favour, which gives the power of decision, when to attack. That’s what I seek now because Tulkington has been making all the running and is comfortable. Let’s see how he behaves when the shoe is on the other foot.’
‘The risk?’
‘Is there one? He would happily see me dead. Now let us find Zachary − I need to know where I can get hold of a flatbed cart and I’m hoping he has a neighbour who can provide one.’