Edward Brazier, as they drank wine instead of brandy, realised much of what Saoirse was telling him was supposition, the things people say quietly to each other on the grounds that it is gossip, not established truth. Asked, he would have admitted it was rife as well as a bane in the King’s Navy, generally employed to undermine rivals. The owner of Cottington Court was seen as the guiding hand behind what had become a major enterprise, but pressed to give credence to her story by stating actual offences that could be set against the name she was left exasperated, for there were none.
Without question she could say John Hawker was employed by Tulkington at the slaughterhouse, but also as an auxiliary Collector of Taxes for the municipality of Deal. There Saoirse could speak with total confidence about his dual functions, one legal and official, the other quite the reverse.
‘I pay him the tax due on what I sell and, to satisfy, I have to show my accounts for the quarter. Fewer have a sharper eye for inaccuracies than Hawker. Some say it’s how he got his name.’
‘No wonder he was not welcome.’ Brazier reprised his first night in the Playhouse and the stiffness of the interchange he observed. ‘But you must own it is an odd combination: an outright bully by repute, but with a counting house brain.’
‘At the same time of calling, he will advise what is in the offing in contraband and invite me to bid for what I would like to buy.’
‘Like wine casks of superior quality?’
‘That and brandy, which he also sells to the alehouse.’ Not supposed to sell spirits, it was commonplace that tavern owners did so; like the servants listed on a ship’s muster while still ashore, it was too common a minor peculation to raise comment. ‘They will also purchase tobacco.’
‘Garlick?’
Saoirse nodded, her next comment being delivered with an arch look.
‘I take it you bought this wine we’re drinking from Mr Parkin?’ Brazier did not need to acknowledge the truth of the proposition, so she added, ‘Well he bottles it from the source, so there’s none without guilt, if avoiding harsh duties could be termed that. Is the buyer any more free of sin than the seller?’
‘Would it surprise you to say I have no interest in avoidance, in any other respect than the way it impacts on my future plans?’
‘I cannot see having Henry Tulkington for a brother-in-law, if half of what is hinted about him is true, as a way to bring much comfort.’
There was a significant pause before Brazier responded. ‘Does having him as a brother look any different?’
‘If you have not already asked yourself that question, it’s about time you did so.’
‘I cannot believe Betsey Langridge has any knowledge of what you have suggested.’
‘Would it alter your thinking,’ she asked, ‘if that turned out not to be the case?’
It was not a question he could readily answer. If Betsey knew, or even suspected her brother was the man to control a major part of smuggling in East Kent, did it necessarily alter his view of her? The scale of what Saoirse put forward, regarding an organised and extensive enterprise, was telling, nothing less than the same point made to him by William Pitt. Could she share the same house and be in ignorance? He then had to remind himself she was not long back from the West Indies and had been young prior to departure.
He reprised every word they had exchanged, from the first meeting in Jamaica to the last walk in the woods, seeking clues, to come to no conclusion, but knew the mere thought Betsey could keep such knowledge from him must impact on their relationship. It was to get away from such troubling speculations he changed the course of the conversation.
‘You said people who have fallen out with Henry Tulkington pay a price?’
‘I say the rumour is that those in dispute with him suffer for it, yes, though at one remove.’
‘Hawker?’
‘Him or those he employs, I would guess.’
‘Could I fall into such a category?’
‘You would know the truth of it better than I.’
Brazier was back in that too-hot study, reprising his fractious meeting with Tulkington, resisting the notion the exchange could have led to what happened. He decided to relate the memory to Saoirse, impressed by the way she listened without comment until he finished. It was a time before she responded.
‘I think I have to say to you this. Jaleel Trotter, your Daisy, is not a well-known face in Deal and neither is he of the tough sort. You should ask yourself why he carries the name.’
‘I have experienced the same name-calling in the service. I assume for a similar vice.’
‘He visits the town from time to time – but rarely, and keeps to certain places.’
‘I recall passing an alleyway towards the North End of Middle Street – would he be found there?’
‘More likely than elsewhere,’ Saoirse acknowledged, ‘but that too is gossip. It’s not a place I frequent.’
‘Say I did upset Tulkington enough to warrant a beating in his eyes; it would then follow he set Hawker to do the deed. And, since he is dead set on my not marrying his sister, the proscription to depart Deal would fit the purpose. But that still does not explain the use of Daisy’s name.’
It was impossible to miss the worried frown that produced, immediately followed by her standing, which brought Brazier to his feet as well. ‘There are questions to which I don’t have an answer, any more than you. I must also own to have gone further than intended in possible enlightenment. I must put my affairs and livelihood before your need to know things, and if it was known I talked—’
‘Fear not, Saoirse. If I choose to act on what you have given me, it will be done in my own name.’
Having seen her out the door, Brazier was left to contemplate the exchange as well as how to proceed, which was not easy given his thinking kept being dragged back to the past. One thought did surface: Betsey had told him her brother would come round to blessing their union in time, as he had with Stephen Langridge, which begged the question as to why he had objected to that union in the first place. There was only one place to find more information and that would have to wait until morning.
Henry Tulkington listened to John Hawker as he outlined how he had collared Harry Spafford and, since there was no effusive approval, he was obliged to explain it had been a sudden thing, taken on the wing, rather than considered. That he had blabbed the truth of his father’s thieving was entered as justification.
‘Where is he?’
‘Stowed with the barrels he feels sure he will end up in.’
Tulkington could not say, even if he would like to, that the action had been unwise and, in such a public manner, doubly so. Had it been done in secret, Harry would have been a solid chip with which to bargain. The way he had been lifted and his pleas for mercy would be the talk of Deal, which meant any concession made from Worth would look like weakness. So his pa would stand as firm as he could to save face, and he could, knowing that to harm or dispose of Harry, when the whole town knew of his whereabouts and who had him, was impossible.
To just hand the youngster back would send the opposite message, neither course bringing the result Tulkington reckoned he needed, which was that his operations should go on without trouble from any quarter. The people he traded with did so in the full expectation of their requirements being met.
At their meeting Spafford had given out no sign of being ill, which might give the lie to his claim of approaching death. Yet if true, the offer he had made stood to remove for good what was an irritation and one threatening to become a problem. It hinged on the depth of that which Spafford sought for his wastrel son – a sum of money, but one never arrived at. Much as he hated to bend, sense and the needs of his business meant it should be established.
‘I do not expect you to like this John, but I require you to make contact with Jaleel Trotter again. Spafford and I need to talk and soon.’
The supposition such an errand might be unwelcome was obvious; Hawker looked as though he had swallowed a wasp, an indication of the depth of his objection given he took great care to hide any emotion at all from his employer; businesslike was best.
‘Would I be permitted to say that there’s another way open?’
Tulkington was angered by the suggestion, which implied he had not thought matters through, but it was he who now needed to hide his feelings. ‘Threaten harm to Harry?’
‘For a return of that stolen, added to a payment for the affront.’
Hawker had something of a mind, but did it extend beyond the learning of letters and the ability to read accounts? What was required now would not be served by a bloody reaction and again, the whole of Deal knew where Harry Spafford was being held. The angry look at the suggestion of talking to Trotter had disappeared, but Hawker’s look was flinty, while the stiff posture and bunched fists at his side indicated the depth of his frustration.
‘Best, then, I tell you what was imparted to me on the last occasion Spafford and I talked.’
Tulkington kept a sharp eye on his man as he related the nature of the exchange in the coach, and only in the odd twitch of skin on the cheeks could he discern how upset Hawker was. It required to be dealt with.
‘You are wondering at not being told before?’
‘Had I been, I would not have wasted breath charging round the town askin’ daft questions, Mr Tulkington. If it gets out, I will look a fool, which I say will serve neither you nor I.’
‘Even knowing what I have just told you, John, I was no more certain of the culprit than you.’ The cheeks hollowed as Hawker’s jaw tightened; he might as well have called him a liar which, if it annoyed his employer, nevertheless made it necessary to placate a man he needed. ‘I regret it now, but I thought it wise at the time. And I had given Spafford my word not to divulge what he told me, even to you.’
‘Your word is your bond, I reckon, right enough.’
The way that was said belied the words. The tone of Tulkington’s response had to be very measured; it also had to be accompanied with a regretful smile. The end was more important right now than Hawker’s wounded feelings; those he could deal with afterwards.
‘I require you to do as I ask. You will come to see it is for the best.’
They were walking along Middle Street as twilight fell, passing several taverns, which was not to be remarked upon even if Brazier had hinted to his crewmen his intention to down some ale. Pushing through the bustle of Portobello Court, Brazier stopped before an alleyway, around which stood several obvious Mollies in gaudy attire, eyeing the quartet with a mixture of suspicion and, in one or two cases, interest; it was not always youth and beauty that engendered attraction.
‘I am minded to have a look,’ Brazier said, turning to his trio with an amused expression.
As ever it was Peddler who had the wit to respond in the appropriate manner. ‘Well I’ll be buggered, Capt’n!’
‘Ye will if ye gan in there,’ was Cocky Logan’s chirpy opinion.
‘I sense a purpose, your honour.’
‘Sharp of you, Dutchy. There’s a certain cove who frequents this place I’m told, and he’s one I would welcome a word with.’
‘You’ve now’t to worry about, Dutchy,’ Peddler hooted. ‘None of these nancies will lay a hand on an ugly sod like you.’
The response came with no rancour, hard anyway with Dutchy’s accent, but it did with a casually raised fist. ‘Happen I might turn you a bit less becoming than you be now, mate.’
‘Work cut oot there, Dutchy.’
Looking along the street, Brazier picked up, in the dim light, the head of John Hawker, making his way through the crowds, acknowledging, by the way he was nodding, those who knew him. But he had not spotted Brazier, who had whipped off his distinctive naval headgear to keep it so. Given the possibility Hawker might be responsible for his beating, while he was with some of his old barge crew this presented a chance to exact retribution on the spot. Tempted, he knew he had to be certain of his guilt: he could not act on mere suspicion, and besides, who was to say in this street, where he was on home turf, how many folk might come to his aid?
‘Step back and make yourselves small.’
It was a reflection of time served together and dangers faced that all three obeyed without question. Indeed, they followed their captain’s lead in engaging with various folk using Middle Street as a place to trade, in Peddler’s case a whore of neither beauty nor youth, who carried in her hand a long whip, while on her head sat a pair of Viking horns, leaving no doubt of the kind of service she was offering.
‘I’d stick to the Mollies, Peddler,’ crowed Dutchy, ‘all you’ll get there, my old dear, is a sore arse.’
It was not fear that had Brazier avoid a confrontation, but curiosity, thinking he might tail the sod, for it was just possible by doing so he would find out something of interest. He could not avoid noting there was a confident bustle about Hawker, while his physical presence had folk move out of his way, at least those who knew him. That did not apply to tars come for a run ashore and, once or twice, he could be seen to give a push to clear a path, ignoring any protests that ensued.
Hawker got in amongst the Mollies, before pushing his way down the alley. Brazier’s surprise did not last long: he had called on Saoirse to collect taxes due and the activities of a place selling drink would not exempt them from the need to likewise cough up to the government. But it did put paid to any idea he had of going in there himself to seek out Daisy Trotter.
‘Best get Peddler away, Capt’n, afore he strikes a bargain with the lash lady.’
Dutchy’s plea made Brazier look, to see the whore laughing, her shoulders and, even more, her massive bosom shaking with mirth.
‘There he goes, ay?’ Logan responded, shaking his head. ‘He’ll be getting wan frae that whip fer not a penny spent, you watch, ah tell ye.’
‘Navy will do that for him, Cocky,’ Dutchy opined, ‘any time he chooses, an’ I’ll put my sweet self forward to swing the cat.’
‘Time to move on,’ Brazier called, thinking it a bad idea to just stand in the street with Hawker bound to exit in short order. This took them to the Hope and Anchor, a tavern occupying the corner of a sizeable square, in the middle of which sat a cock-fighting pit surrounded by an eager and noisy audience, with wagers being placed and accepted. As Brazier pushed his way into the tavern, Cocky and Peddler peeled off to join the crowd, leaving Brazier to buy tankards of porter before he and Dutchy sought a place to sit.
‘What were all that about, Capt’n?’
‘You know, Dutchy, with your height I reckoned you would have spotted him too.’
‘Can’t gainsay that, your honour, but I can enquire as to us havin’ done so, what happened to the notion of clouting the bugger round the ear?’
‘In time, maybe.’
Hawker was inside what Basil the Bulgar liked to call his palace of entertainment, which others referred to as the Flea Pit. The basement was a packed and noisy brick-lined room, in which perspiration ran down the walls. He had some trouble in getting to talk to the owner, whom he found on a settle with his arm round a young and pretty glassy-eyed lad, naked to the waist. That arm was soon detached: Basil could see Hawker wanted to talk and that was not to be done in public, or where they could be overheard.
Following Basil up a set of stairs, they were so steep they needed a rope on which hands could haul so before Hawker’s eyes was a fat and waddling posterior belonging to a sad old man, an impression not improved face to face in the extravagant bedroom. Basil was bald and remarkably ugly, with jowls no longer firm enough to hold to his bones, added to brownish once-freckled skin which was now so pitted it looked as though it had been a target for the pellets from a fowling piece.
Slack, rouged lips and yellowed teeth were added to a high-pitched, effete voice, the eyes not helped by the kohl with which he sought to highlight and render them striking, for the effect was the opposite. Before John Hawker was a man who pretended to be joyous and outrageous in public, which acted to mask the misery of a life in which he endlessly sought affection, only to reject it when forthcoming. He was also, quite palpably, in some fear of his visitor, evident in the vocal tremor as, sure it was not time to pay his taxes, he asked the purpose.
‘I need words with Daisy.’
‘Haven’t seen him,’ was the piped, nervy response. ‘Days past since he called in; a week even.’
Hawker thought it unlikely that would alter. After what had happened, Deal would be reckoned too dangerous to casually enter, but he was damned − Tulkington or no Tulkington − if he was going to go grubbing to Worth to get the message over himself.
‘You must have ways to get to him.’
‘Never even tried, dearie,’ was waved away with a limp hand gesture.
‘Then it’s time you did. Not asking you to go personal, but send someone to him. Say I want to talk and do it as soon as sun-up tomorrow.’
‘But—’
‘You don’t “but” me, Basil, for you will know where it leads. Find a body to take the message that I will be in the Griffin’s Head at noontime. Also, that he has my word for his safety.’
‘You’re going to talk about Harry?’
‘None of you concern, but there’s a law that has words on what you get up to here, an’ you won’t want to hear ’em from the dock. Mind, life of a prison hulk might suit folk of your stamp.’
A fearful Basil the Bulgar, who in truth hailed from Dover, was left shaking as he heard Hawker’s boots pounding down the bare wooden stairs.