In so many ways Cottington Court was self-sufficient and, given Henry’s misanthropy, there were few visitors outside one regular caller, a stranger who did no more than enter the house and leave with no indication of his purpose. Wood for the fires came readily with annual thinning and pollarding; there were vegetables from the kitchen garden and game from the woods, while the home farms not only provided fowl, they reared cattle and pigs, which, through the use of the Tulkington slaughterhouse, ensured a ready supply of meat. Likewise, flour from Henry’s mills was delivered by carters he directly employed, with there being only one exception: the supply of coal.
This was something Sarah Lovell insisted be used in the communal rooms, her complaint being wood created too much mess, one always made as though she had any hand in the clearing away of it. Henry, who liked the wood fire in his study, didn’t even notice; as long as there was a blaze in any grate by which he took up a stand, it was fine. Rare were the days, even in the summer months, when none were lit anywhere in the house, if for no other reason than to keep at bay any chance of encroaching damp. It also ensured and warded off complaints by Henry, ever in fear of a chill.
The fuel used was sea coal, lumps garnered from what was washed up on the beach, in what was one of the lowest local occupations. The poorest inhabitants of the East Kent coast collected what they required for their own use to heat their hovels in winter. But, as was common, where a coin was to be made, there were those who sent out women, children and those unable to find other employment, to gather up what was in abundance along an eight-mile strand, this bagged and sold to those too grand to undertake their own collecting, both within the town and the surrounding countryside.
The crunching sound of wheels on an open cart alerted Elisabeth to its presence as she was coming in from her morning walk. It was heading up the drive, loaded with filthy sacks, being driven by a fellow covered in black dust. This was of enough interest for her to stay on the parterre, seemingly examining the formal patterns of flowers, which, at this time of year, were coming in to full bloom. The cart turned away from the ornamental gates to go round the side of the house where, she was vaguely aware, lay a shed in which the coal was stored.
She suddenly found herself contemplating what was the longest of shots, a truly desperate throw, yet there was a lack of alternatives, every other avenue having been considered and dismissed. No one going off the estate, and there were few, given the lack of necessity, would risk taking the letter she’d written and now had tucked into her pinafore pocket, along with the money she likewise dare not leave in her room. Discovery would not only be instant dismissal, but word would be spread in the district of the miscreant being an unreliable employee, with foreseeable consequences.
The idea of approaching the carter herself was risible: not only was it beneath her social station, the sight of her and the suggestion of any request would be likely to scare the man rigid. Nor did he have dealings with Grady, which took away the only person known to be in sympathy.
‘Happy to cut a bouquet for your room, ma’am.’
Lifting her head from these thoughts and the flowers, she realised the man addressing her was Creevy, a fellow of unprepossessing features with whom she’d never had any kind of relationship. She’d seen him with Henry, in the kind of hunched pose of the groveler, so had him down as her brother’s man, but he sparked a train of thought: coal, as well as wood, was used in the kitchens. If the division socially between employers and servants was absolute in terms of exchange, neither held the other to be mysterious. Below stairs, they knew what was going on in the better parts of the house, while those to whom they tended also had a good notion of their lives and relationships, none more than one who had grown up in their orbit.
Creevy, in his obsequious offer, reminded her of how different he was and always had been from Lionel Upton, the man discharged for seeking to aid her. If Upton thought it a secret, Elisabeth knew, indeed the whole house probably knew, he’d had a sort of arrangement with the cook. To call it romantic would have fallen foul of the reticence with which they both approached anything like mutual attraction. Yet she was sure the pair had an understanding, one never quite taken to nuptials, because to do so would require the permission of their master. Her father would surely have bestowed his blessing, but they left it too late to ask. She could understand any reluctance to approach Henry.
‘Which would be most kind, Creevy. If you could have them sent to my room.’
There was a cast in the man’s eyes, added to a twitch of the lips, an expression which said he knew what was what in said room. Elisabeth wondered what images he was conjuring up in his mind − uncomfortable ones for her, surely − which had her move away quickly. As usual, Grady was waiting, even on a warm day in which she’d worn only a shawl, but there was no sign of her Aunt Sarah. She no longer automatically appeared on her return, done previously with a searching stare, as if she could discern anything untoward which might have taken place in the time her niece had been out of sight, misdemeanours to be reported to Henry. Habit had rendered it an imposition to be often skipped so, after a smiling exchange with Grady, she was free to go to her room.
At the base of what she was about to attempt was the feeling the Cottington servants didn’t just feel uncomfortable under the thumb of their master, but they actively disliked him. It was an impression, no more; the way Grady was acting now and what Upton had done before his dismissal gave it credence. If it truly was the case, how far would they go to thwart him, one in particular who had just cause?
‘Would it be in order for me to have a word with Cook?’
He was surprised: the woman he called ‘The Loveless’ was the one who oversaw the arrangements for what was supplied by the kitchen, yet any member of the family was free to go wherever they wished. The fact Elisabeth had not done so, content to leave what was a chore to her aunt, might raise a question, but this gave him no reason to discourage her.
‘If you wish to do so, Miss Elisabeth, I’m sure she’d be pleased to see you. Bunty often talks of how you were in and out of the kitchen when you were young.’
‘If my aunt asks, would you tell her I’m in my room?’ Smiling eyes went glassy as his gaze was lifted to a spot above her head, the voice sonorous. ‘Of course.’
Still avoiding her eye, he stood aside to let her pass to the door behind which lay his domain and that of the cook. Moving swiftly, Elisabeth, once through, skipped to the kitchen, to enter a place she was ashamed to admit not having visited since her return from Jamaica. It spoke to her of bad manners but entering in apology would not do. She uttered a loud greeting and added a beaming smile.
‘Bunty, how long is it since I have come here?’ The surprised cook never got a chance to reply, her scullery maids half-curtsying in greeting. ‘Shame on me for not doing so before.’
‘Miss Elisabeth,’ was uttered with surprise, bordering on shocked delight.
A woman of short stature and considerable width, with a lot more flesh now than Elisabeth recalled, she was even more surprised to be kissed on both cheeks, the second peck, on an ear unseen by the maids, coming with a whisper, part covered by the sound of sacks being emptied into the coal shed close by.
‘I have a letter regarding Lionel.’
The mere fact of her using his given name caused astonishment, which had Bunty put her hands to her ample rosy cheeks, to see a throw of the eyes, indicating the maids should be sent out so they could talk. Elisabeth knew her hopes depended on one thing: had Upton confided in Bunty in regard to his intention to help her? If he had not, then this ploy would struggle.
‘You two,’ Bunty warbled. ‘There’s plenty to do in tidying the pantry, so away with you. Miss Elisabeth and I have much to catch up on.’
Another dip of the knees and they were gone, with Elisabeth taking Bunty by the shoulders, her head forward and close. ‘You know what he sought to do for me?’
‘I know the price he paid, Miss Elisabeth.’
‘Did he tell you our arrangement?’ A mystified look was enough and, there being no time for lengthy explanation, she took the letter from her pinafore pocket. ‘I sent him to the home of Captain Brazier, who I knew would take him in. He will also look after him, for my sake. I have here a letter for the captain to make sure he knows I wish Lionel to be treated as he would a servant of his own.’
Shoving it into Bunty’s hand, it was inevitable she would look at it but, since she lacked the ability to read, a fact known to Elisabeth from childhood, it would mean nothing. The shame she felt at the deceit had to be measured against the need, and besides, the last and most risky part was yet to be proposed.
‘The coalman is delivering − do you know the man?’ A nod. ‘Well?’
A more emphatic nod. ‘He’ll be in for a bite when he’s done, allas does, an’ we chat about this an’ that.’
‘I want you to give him this half a guinea.’ Sensing hesitation she added, ‘I’m in danger, Bunty, great danger.’ A plump hand came out to affectionately and caringly take hers, making her feel even worse. ‘The letter must somehow be posted. I dare not try to have it delivered in case the captain’s house is being watched. If I can get away from here, perhaps you and Lionel …’ Her intense look told Bunty they might be reunited, this followed by a manufactured snuffle. ‘Will you help me, please?’
The held hand was tightly squeezed. ‘Best go, Miss Elisabeth, case anyone comes through the door. Leave the coalman to me, an’ bless you for your care of my Lionel.’
Elisabeth kissed her cheeks again, as much to hide her expression as to confer agreement. Then she was gone, getting to her room without being seen, there to sit and wonder, with wet eyes, at what kind of person circumstances had made her become.
Cottin was far from pleased to receive Edward Brazier’s note: it did not run to the description of a letter, being short and to the point. But it told him the name he was after, as well as the occupation of the corpse, but not much more other than he was an innocent victim of a crime, aimed in Brazier’s direction, by certain parties not identified.
‘Damn you, man, if you know the culprits, why don’t you say so!’
It was a reasonable outburst to make, but it did leave Garlick wondering at the meaning. He had taken delivery from Vincent Flaherty and handed over to Cottin the folded and sealed paper, as always the exterior examined closely for clues, usually the identity of the sender; those he drank with liked to know these things. This one had none, and a good stare was not enough to see through to what was inside. He had to move sharpish as he heard his guest approaching the door on creaking floorboards, getting out of sight on tiptoe, to be back in his hutch before Cottin made the hallway.
Without any acknowledgement, the sheriff stomped out the door, making for the business premises of the coroner, who owned a sail loft and rope-walk behind the Navy Yard, which provided commodities much required by departing ships, as well as − very likely − a good income. Cavell’s office looked out on the making of the ropes, with great coils of all thicknesses, from whip lines to anchor cables, stored and available for sale, as well as the pair of machines, counter-twisting the hemp.
‘Cheaper to buy them here than in London docks, sir, much cheaper.’
Cottin was not in the least interested in ropes or their use, even less in their price, nor was he impressed by Cavell’s reluctance to close his office door so they could talk over the noise of manufacture, obliging him to employ a near shout.
‘I have the name of the poor soul found in Quebec House.’
‘Indeed,’ came with no excessive interest nor much volume.
‘His name is Lionel Upton.’ Raised eyebrows rendered it unnecessary for Cavell to plead ignorance. ‘Accommodated by Captain Brazier as an act of charity.’
‘Not always a kindness, too often a waste and, in this case, certainly not so.’
‘I was wondering if we could institute some enquiries to find out more about him.’
‘Man’s dead, Mr Cottin. Good to have his identity, but what does it do but serve to put a name to the plot in which he will be interred?’
‘What about relatives?’
‘Ah yes,’ Cavell sighed, as if such things were unknown to him.
‘I suggest some printed posters asking for information.’
‘On the town’s expense?’ hinted at reluctance. Seeing his visitor was determined, he added, ‘If you think it necessary.’
‘Mr Cavell, can I remind you this poor fellow died as the result of a crime? Someone is responsible for his death and the person or persons should be found.’
‘You know, Mr Cottin, there’s no need to shout.’
Edward Brazier was writing another letter, this time to Sarah Lovell, in which he enquired anonymously if she recalled a particular friend of her husband’s, a man called Venables, now deceased. He related he was in possession of the man’s diaries and was drawn to certain entries with dates provided, to then enquire whether the suggestion something untoward had befallen Samuel met with her recollection. The exact date of his disappearance was then referred to with the mention of the definite and binding arrangement he had made but didn’t meet, added to the fact she knew: no sight nor sound of him had been heard of since.
He concluded with the promise further letters would follow, giving a more complete explanation of what he had come to suspect, with the final declaration of sympathy for the fact she was obliged to reside in the same house as one of the persons probably responsible for her husband’s disappearance, as well as whatever fate had befallen him.
The day, for his barge crew, had been spent waiting for Zachary while carrying out a list of tasks he had left behind to be completed, the owner off to borrow a cart from a neighbour and willingly so, taking with him a packhorse to do the pulling; if he couldn’t bury the dead, getting them off his property, to a place unspecified, was the next best thing.
There was a degree of fretting about time: Brazier wanted to be much closer to Deal so he could choose his moment to act, which would be in darkness when all was shuttered, and a cart would take time to cover the distance. When Zachary returned, the unpleasant task of lifting on the bodies was carried out. An old tarpaulin, also borrowed, was then used to conceal them but not before they were liberally scattered with dozens of rosemary stalks from an old and gnarled bush to mitigate the smell. Peddler drove the cart with Brazier at his side while the others rode.
As a matter of course Sidney Cavell had sent round to his fellow members of the town council, those who’d met with the High Sheriff on arrival, the news of Cottin’s discovery and his request for posters. The work of the day was far from finished when he was visited by Tobias Sowerby, who insisted they speak with the office door closed.
‘There’s an Upton at Cottington Court, John. Henry Tulkington’s head groom − met him any number of times in Acton’s day, when there was a regular hunt.’
‘A long time ago, Tobias. Might not still be there.’
‘He was hale the last time I saw him, which was when Henry’s sister came back from Jamaica and had her fete, not so long past.’
‘Related, d’ye reckon?’ was calmly posed.
‘No idea, but it’s possible. These posters Cottin wants, that’s not a direction to send folks in, himself in particular.’
Cavell pondered for a bit, which left his visitor wondering how much he knew about Henry’s affairs, not a subject of general discussion, more of knowing looks and avoidance of comment. Not as much as Sowerby, certainly, who was commercially involved, but it would be close to impossible, in a society as interconnected as theirs, not to have some inkling.
‘Haven’t done anything yet, Tobias. Happen it would be best to keep it that way.’
‘Thought the bugger would be well gone by now.’
Cavell finally showed some passion. ‘Should be, too. It don’t make sense him hanging about.’
The thought was not voiced by either man, but it was there. What if Cottin knew more than he was telling, information that had given him a reason to come to Deal as well as to stay? Neither man had any certainty about who’d set the riot in motion, but they’d picked up the William Pitt rumour, which narrowed the field to a name no one wished to mention.
There was no guarantee the coal delivery man would take Elisabeth’s letter, and going back to the kitchen to enquire right away was out of the question: she had been lucky once and it was tempting fate to try again too soon. Even if Bunty, who had intimated she knew him well, had paid him her money, was he honest? He could just pocket it, do nothing and it need never be known. Did he have the wit to post it, which was likely not something he was accustomed to?
All these possibilities rattled around, mixed in with the promises Elisabeth made to herself as a penance for her deceit: should she get free of Henry and marry Edward, when they set up home, there would be places for both Upton and Bunty where they would happily bless their union.