The jostle of the cart, on less than smooth surfaces, common to the kind of country tracks avoided by too much human contact, did nothing for Brazier’s shoulder, though even the pain caused could do nothing to dent his mood. He was acting not reacting, producing the same feelings he’d experienced in the service when a fight was in the offing. A tingling of anticipation, with none of the prior concern he’d previously felt as, in common with everyone else aboard ship who could write, he penned a farewell to his still living loved ones, in case he should not survive.
It was possible, given the lack of conversation from Peddler, to reflect on a career in which he was well aware he’d been lucky. Many naval officers went through their entire service without being given the opportunity to distinguish themselves in battle; others granted such good fortune failed miserably to shine where he had succeeded. He’d taken part in the battle off Porto Praya in the Azores, this followed by the successful cutting out of half a dozen Dutch merchantmen at the Cape of Good Hope. The campaign was topped for him by his being promoted to post captain for his part in the capture of the forts at Trincomalee.
He was feeling confident, yet it was tempered, as it always must be, with the knowledge things could so very easily go wrong. The need to be able to respond and adjust was paramount, so his tendency towards recollection faded the nearer the party got to Deal and this took him back to a critical examination of his intentions. It wasn’t just Tulkington who was too comfortable in his existence, it was the whole town, or at least the prosperous citizens who turned a blind eye to nefarious practices, not that the lower orders would be exempt from blame. If the rumours and the riot had been set in motion by Tulkington, they had been too willing and likely too drunk to act as his useful idiots.
He wanted to throw so much grit into their works so everyone, high and low, would be affected. If the demise of poor Upton could bring down on them a high sheriff, what would result from the discovery of a trio of murdered bodies? It should let in daylight where it was needed but, more importantly, and Cottin was right in this, any more attempts on his person would become too dangerous to contemplate. Even if he could evade involvement in any enquiries, Betsey’s brother would need to show great care or risk attracting attention.
It would also, given he had knowledge of the truth, put him in a position to pressurise Betsey’s brother and force him to free her, given he had no deep interest in the suppression of smuggling. Perhaps heads would roll for the deaths of Trotter and the Spaffords, which would be a good thing and, if he could help bring people to justice, he would do so. But his primary aim of getting Betsey away from Cottington Court came before anything.
It was easy to toy with the notion of taking revenge and he had done so sitting on Zachary’s sunlit bench − if not on Tulkington, then on Hawker. Betsey, even if she might now despise him, would hardly take to her brother being slain and he would have to be, there being no way such a lily-livered stick of misery would face up to him in a proper duel. With Hawker, the act of killing would be much harder, given what would have to be overcome in terms of numbers: involving his old shipmates he could not contemplate.
To do it alone, without drawing down on his head the very law he was hoping to use for his own ends, would be near to impossible. When cogitating on this, he’d acknowledged his thinking lacked the kind of nobility common in many of the books he’d read, but this was flesh and blood not pen and ink. He declined to be a knight in shining armour, taking down evil; let the likes of William Pitt take on the role for which he had been elected.
‘Getting near too dark to see the road clear, your honour.’
It being lined with trees in leaf, Peddler’s observation was acknowledged, but he reckoned on there being not far to go, while the horse pulling the cart had keener eyesight than any human. They’d come by a circuitous route, aiming for the fields to the west of the town, where root vegetables were the crop, still grown in feudal strips. Visibility would be restored when they emerged to clear and moonlit skies. At twilight, those tending their patch would cease to work and head back to their hearths. Out of the arc of activity centred on the Lower Valley Road, they would be left with a view of the lights of the town, sat in darkness, only moving to act when those lights were extinguished.
Given the number of places dispensing drink and carnal gratification, added to the endless supply of visiting merchant seaman, not to forget inhabitants who were great topers themselves, Deal was a town to stay up later than most. Having got to where Brazier wanted them to be, he and Peddler got off the box, the others dismounted and they sat away from the cart, for the rosemary was only so effective in countering the smell. His old barge crew once more talked of old times and adventures or, more often of misadventures, three of them being footloose. Dutchy had a wife and family in a house on the Fal Estuary at Restronguet Point and had taken to boat repairing once he was paid off from HMS Diomede. All had come home with a decent sum from the recapture of the Spanish plate ship, taken back from the French villain who’d been in league with Admiral Hassall.
It was money spent on pleasure by Peddler and Cocky, while Dutchy’s had been spread over an extended and needy family. Joe Lascelles, in a strange land, with an even odder climate, had husbanded his until, settled enough, he could seek employment. There was a degree of embarrassment for Brazier when the subject came up: a naval captain made many multiples of what was paid to common seamen in prize money, in his case enough to never have to be concerned about being out of funds again, a comparison not mentioned. He was paying them to be here now, which, with his day-to-day coin getting low, would need to be addressed.
To the question of another ship, which came up eventually and was gently pursued, their old commander could only demur, at the same time wondering what they knew of the circumstances surrounding the death of Admiral Hassall. It was a truth well acknowledged nothing could be kept secret from the lower deck: they could hear a whisper through six inches of oak. It was also true they’d have a care with whom they shared anything, and it would certainly not be raised in Brazier’s presence. Cheering was the reassurance, as soon as he had another command, they would seek to join him.
‘If you’d have us, your honour,’ Peddler suggested, only half-joking.
‘How could I expect to manage without you?’
‘Ye’d hae a struggle, right enough,’ Cocky hooted.
In time the lights began to dim, first those in the houses, obliged by the municipality to keep going a candle in a first-floor window to illuminate the street below. Unheard would be a watchman doing his rounds, telling the citizens the duty was no longer required. This left the glow of other lights, torches and the much bigger ship-sized lanterns at the entrances to the various places of entertainment. In time they too were extinguished as Deal went to bed and the visiting sailors either returned to their vessel, passed out in a doorway, or bedded a whore.
The cart was slowly manoeuvred round the growing strips to get as close to St George’s churchyard as possible, in silence because there were several free-standing and substantial houses on the town periphery, each with dogs set to warn of intruders. An occasional bark was soon taken up by other canines, to crescendo and then die down, the common sound of the night which should cause no alarm.
The first task was to clear the graveyard of those who used it as a place to sleep, the gin-addicted urchins. Brazier wanted them rousted out with threats of violence, though he was hoping none would be required: the waifs were there through circumstances not choice. Also, it had to be carried out without too much noise: shouting and yelling would alert those on the nearside of the Lower Valley Road, though most were places of business not dwellings.
Bandanas were used to hide faces, even Joe’s, with rough staves from Zachary’s woodpile employed to threaten a group of ragamuffins quite used to being harried. They also had a grapevine which warned of trouble, so youngsters in their dozens fled at the first sign of disturbance; in such a precarious existence it was a group always at risk from people sick of their activities, who would take up cudgels from time to time in an attempt to curb what they brought to the town: petty thieving and the dipping of pockets.
Some could not be stirred, too intoxicated on brain-rotting home-made gin, bought from the naval widows of Middle Street, to react to the whispers of alarm rippling through the graveyard, or even a sharp kick from the more alert. Given they lay against tombstones, in the dark and unseen, and with only the sound of their snuffling or snoring placing their presence, it was held they could safely be left to their slumbers so the unloading of the cart could proceed without disturbance.
Heavy work on a mild night, it left Brazier’s tars sweating as the three bodies were placed in a circle, with much effort given their rigidity, as if sat down for a conflab. Care was taken to ensure they stayed upright and didn’t fall over. Hawker’s horse, tack removed, and one of the pack animals he’d led to the Spafford farmhouse, were to be let loose to graze on the way back, only Bonnie and the one pulling the cart being taken all the way, the latter to be freed once the loaned cart was returned.
Once clear of the vegetable plots, it was best to wait for the dawn: Brazier, with cart now empty, reckoned it safe to get going again in daylight. Waiting naturally engendered speculation of what would happen on the discovery of the bodies, unaware it had already taken place. The urchins, creeping back to the graveyard had followed their noses to discover what had been left. Accustomed to being accused of every crime in creation, they did not linger and nor did they abandon their comatose fellows. Well before cockcrow they were all long gone, seeking shelter elsewhere so, come the day, they could plead ignorance.
Brazier and his party returned to Zachary’s smallholding mid-morning, after a second night out, to take a breakfast of oats and milk before finding a spot in which to sleep. The last to close his eyes was Edward Brazier, he having too active a mind for immediate slumber, with two things on which to ponder: what would be the result of his night-time deeds and to think on was to follow. When he did go under, it was while wondering how Betsey was faring, mixed with images of their shared future.
She too had encountered trouble getting to sleep, imagining, or was it hoping, the post-chaise, which would depart Dover in the morning to come through for a pickup in Deal, would be carrying her letter to Dirley, while wondering how he would react.
Given the graveyard provided a route through to the various vegetable strips, discovery came as soon as it was light enough to see and by more than one person, not that any alert was immediately forthcoming. A town steeped in wrongdoing, with an inbuilt distrust of the magistracy, no citizen, like the urchins who’d crept back only to flee again, wished to be the one to let it be known they were even in the vicinity. It took one upright fellow, making a very early morning visit to lay flowers on the grave of his recently deceased wife, a duty regularly carried out prior to his working day, to react to the sight of the first body. Harry Spafford had been sat up against a headstone, his eyes wide and staring and the hole in his forehead obvious as the cause of death.
Within an hour the verdant green space, dotted with granite sarcophagi and headstones, was full of the curious, come to gaze at what was held to be a rare phenomenon, one not to be missed, with the town watchmen seeking to keep them from touching the bloated bodies or seeking to take souvenirs. For every expression of horror, there was another kind of attendee, ghouls who revelled in the sight and smell of death. Identification took no time at all in the case of the Spaffords, both being well known: Harry for his debaucheries, the father for his foolish and costly attempts at filial reform.
Fewer were sure about Daisy Trotter, as unlovely in death as he had been in life, an object of much interest for the number of wounds, each having wept blood to stain his clothing. Yet there were some who knew him well: the denizens of Basil the Bulgar’s Molly-house, which had been his place of choice when in Deal, who may have wished to cry at the sight if discretion in the face of the mass of citizenry had not prevented them.
Soon lining up to gaze were the leading citizens of the town, the foremost being Sidney Cavell, who was at a total loss as to what to do next. Death was not uncommon in the world he inhabited, violent ones included, but a trio of obvious murders lying in plain sight was beyond his ability to process. Phineas Tooke was in a state of utter flap, a nosegay pressed against his face, fussing about how Deal would be perceived when this atrocity became widely known, which it must.
Tobias Sowerby was steadier and he was also silent, even if his thoughts were in turmoil. Dan Spafford had robbed one of his carters of Henry Tulkington’s contraband tea. Harry had last been seen, and this by half the town, pleading and disappearing into the slaughterhouse with John Hawker’s grip on his collar. The third corpse he knew nothing of, but given the company in which it had been left, it had to be connected to the very same robbery. He had no illusions about Henry Tulkington and his propensity for action against those who threatened his interests, but this went beyond anything he could countenance. Sowerby didn’t have to be told of the need to keep the operations in which he was involved low-key. Now, looking around the faces of those who ran the municipality, all of whom knew something, he was wondering at what connections were being made behind their worried frowns.
Added to this was the buzz of conversation amongst those who’d been pushed back by the watchmen. They speculated on how many had either seen or heard what Hawker had done with young Spafford, who, when marched through the town by Hawker, must have wondered why he was still in one piece and not dead from a gunshot, given the reputation of the man who’d collared him. He surely should have been cut up and stuck in a barrel marked pork.
‘Has the undertaker been sent for?’ Cavell demanded.
‘I was wondering if a physician should be called first,’ Tooke flustered. ‘Surely it is proper to certify death first?’
‘What certification do we need?’ Cavell cried, his exasperation obvious. ‘Even you can see they’re dead. Somebody call an undertaker, we must get them out of sight.’
‘And not killed here,’ Sowerby added. Cavell spun to look at him, his face showing this obvious fact had not occurred. ‘There’s no blood on the ground and, by the smell, they have been dead for days.’
‘What are you saying, Tobias?’
‘Just that, Sidney, but I suggest they are put somewhere away from the common gaze, before every resident of the town has come to look. As to certification, it can be done later.’
The silence which fell was unnerving, the cause soon appearing. John Hawker strode into the graveyard in a manner to tell all he expected the crowd to part like the Red Sea, and they did. A nod was given to the worthies, but nothing was said as he stood in the middle of the circle of death and examined what lay before him while it was telling no one asked him for an opinion. To appear indifferent while inwardly seething took every ounce of his self-control. He alone knew who’d done this and why but to say anything was out of the question. Eventually it was Sowerby who asked him for his thoughts, which got a slow turn and a steady, slightly unnerving look.
‘A dispute among smugglers ain’t unusual, Mr Sowerby. It be obvious to me there’s been one and this be the result.’
‘But why dump them here?’ Tooke demanded.
‘Put you off the scent, Mr Tooke. I reckon this didn’t happen here.’
‘A point already made,’ Cavell said.
‘So whoever did the deed does not want it known where.’ Hawker knew he was taking a huge risk when he added, ‘Find the spot and you’ll find the culprits.’
‘Aside there,’ came from the back of the assembled crowd, who saw no reason to part for the unknown John Cottin.
He was obliged to elbow his way through. The trio whom he’d met previously exchanged concerned glances before he emerged and, once in plain view of the sight, he stood shocked. He’d seen a dead body in his life before; who had not stood over the open coffin of a relative to pay their last respects? But even as a high sheriff, and having taken a look at the charred body from Quebec House, this was his first sight of death by such obvious violence and it stopped him cold, struggling to find words to articulate what he was feeling. He looked at the faces closest to him, the three he knew and the one a stranger, he now the subject of the cold and unnerving stare.
‘What happened here?’ Even loudly expressed, it was feeble and treated as such.
‘Nowt unusual,’ shouted a wit from the crowd. ‘Happens every day.’
‘Fewer mouths to feed,’ added another.
‘Mr Cottin,’ said Cavell, ‘this is my concern until I have drawn certain conclusions. Then and only then do you have an interest.’
‘I beg to differ, sir.’
‘Differ as much as you care to,’ Sowerby snapped. This pest must be kept out of matters if at all possible. ‘But if you do not stand back and allow us to perform our duties, I will have you removed.’
‘And if you interfere with me in the performance of my duties, sir, you will find yourself under lock and key. As High Sheriff of Kent, I represent the authority of both the county and the nation and I will not be treated as a person of no account.’
Naming his office, Cottin had set up a buzz amongst the gathering, the majority of whom had no idea who he was. Having, he felt, silenced Sowerby, he went to stand before the body of Harry Spafford, hands on hips and gaze fixed, trying to give the impression of being in command of his thoughts. In truth they were all over the place. A lawyer by trade, his appointment was political, nothing but a link to higher authority as usually carried out; he had not come to it with any ability in the investigation of crime. Sage nods covered his ignorance as he stood over the unknown trio.
‘Do we know who they are?’
‘Not all,’ Cavell responded, without adding names.
‘No need to establish the cause of death, Mr Cavell, so your duty as coroner is straightforward. This is murder, plain and simple. Let us hope nailing a culprit will be easier than your efforts over Quebec House.’
Sowerby was sure John Hawker’s actions then were plain wrong, for he visibly jerked at the mention, to spin on his heel and make for the throng, which again parted to let him pass, proof of the concern felt immediate.
‘Who’s that fellow?’ Cottin demanded, to receive no answer.