CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Captain Dawson
“. . . and all that has followed and I fear will follow, is in a great measure the consequence of his harsh and headstrong disbelief in miseries to manifest to be doubted.”
Bury, Charlotte, The Diary of a Lady-in-Waiting
According to the direction Alice had given him, Captain Dawson kept a set of rooms in the vicinity of St. James’s. It was not an address for a man who was said to be in debt and resorting to the help of a man like Josiah Poole. But then, it was the address of a man who believed himself to be coming up in the world and wanted to keep up that appearance.
Night had settled in, and the young men of the neighborhood were busy making good cheer with each other. Laughter and shouts emerged from open windows. Adam kept to the wall as much as he could to avoid his fellow pedestrians (many of whom were already drunk), as well as the would-be Corinthians, in their chariots and phaetons, racing their blooded horses and egging each other on.
A few women strolled the cobbles, very obviously on their way to meet their paramours. The young men who lingered about to watch the passing scene were well dressed and sharp eyed. They plainly did not trust Adam, or each other, and sniggered as he passed them.
Adam ignored them. They, perhaps sensing that this stranger was more trouble than he was worth, left him alone.
As reported by Alice, the letters Bingham had unearthed showed that Captain Dawson was a careless man, but his choice of rooms showed that he might possibly be attempting to rein in his affairs. Despite the fashionable bachelor’s neighborhood, his building was wedged into a narrow side street, with the rooms fitted into the very top and back of the house. It was a long climb up a worn, close stair to reach them. The summer’s warmth was trapped in here like the heat in a dirty chimney, and Adam was sweating under his coat by the time he reached Dawson’s door.
He paused, listening. Men’s voices rose from inside. He couldn’t hear the words, but the rhythm was unhurried and companionable.
Adam knocked. The talk inside halted. Chairs scraped. Hard-heeled shoes clacked against the floorboards. Finally, the door opened a few inches, and Adam found himself facing a short, young White man with a pleasant round face, an elaborate cravat, and a good brown coat.
“I’m looking for Captain Dawson,” Adam said.
The young man looked him up and down, taking in his appearance and demeanor. “And who might you be?”
“Adam Harkness. I’m here on behalf of the coroner.”
“The what?” A second man, who was in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, crowded behind the first. “Hang it, Jacobs. It’s not the sheriff. Let the man in.”
Jacobs did not seem entirely convinced, but the second man wrenched the door out of his hand and threw it back to allow Adam to enter the room.
He seemed to have interrupted a friendly game. The cards lay abandoned on the table, along with a half-empty bottle of wine and glasses all drained to their dregs. The room around them was spare but neat—with the bed made and the furniture all in order.
Three men watched Adam warily as he entered. There was Jacobs, who had answered the door. The second fellow in shirtsleeves. A third man was still seated at the card table. He was a fair man in a plain green coat, with muddy blue eyes and a blur of stubble on his pockmarked chin. There was, Adam also noted, a scarlet coat with a captain’s insignia hanging off the back of one of the chairs.
“What’s the coroner to do with Dawson?” demanded Green Coat.
“I have some questions for him regarding a matter that has come before the coroner,” said Adam. “And the sooner he answers, the better off he will be.”
Jacobs and Shirtsleeves exchanged a worried glance. Green Coat reached for the wine bottle.
“You’ll have to come back,” said Shirtsleeves. “Dawson’s not here.”
Adam looked pointedly at the red coat draped across the back of the chair. “He’s not?”
Shirtsleeves looked at him blankly. “Oh, God, you don’t think . . . !” The men all burst out laughing. “No, no, no. That’s mine. My name’s O’Connell. Captain Bernard O’Connell, Eighth Horse. Dawson’s . . .” All at once, O’Connell seemed to remember whom he was talking to, and he clapped his mouth shut.
“Better tell him,” said Green Coat as he poured himself out a fresh glass. “He’ll have us all rounded up or some such.”
“I’d like to see him try,” muttered Jacobs.
“No, I don’t think you would.” Green Coat drank a healthy swallow of wine. “It’s hot, and he’s on business, and if Dawson’s been messing up his own chances again, I’m not going to let his stupidity ruin my evening.”
“Good God, Norris,” cried O’Connell. “I hope I never have to count on you.”
“Best not,” said Norris, with a shrug. “I’m a selfish bastard, and I don’t like trouble. Listen . . . Mr. Harkness, did you say? Dawson’s gone. Off to the West Indies to make his fortune. O’Connell here and Jacobs are taking over his rooms, and we’re waiting for their things.” Norris drank again. “And that’s all there is to it.”
“When does he sail?”
Norris shrugged. “He didn’t say, but he left around nine of the clock. Said he was on his way to Dover.” He glanced at the clock on the mantel. “If he caught that stage, I’m afraid he’s long gone by now.”