After what had been a trying day, Henry Tulkington returned home to a house in which matters still required to be resolved, without having taken the steps to investigate how it might be brought about. Meeting the doctor he’d hoped to question at the Deal Lodge, the fellow who’d supplied him with the potion which had so sedated Elisabeth, which had allowed him to see her married off to Harry Spafford, had been put aside while he dealt with more pressing matters. Much of this he’d mulled over on the way home with no resolution. Feeling far from well, he was sure he needed a good night’s sleep just to reach any sort of equilibrium. This rendered unwelcome the information from Grady to say Joshua Moyle was waiting to see him and had been for some time.
‘The Reverend Doctor is in your study, sir.’
‘How long did you say?’
‘He arrived just after luncheon, sir.’
‘How much drink has he put away?’ was delivered in a waspish tone.
Moyle was a fellow who normally amused Henry, he being the least divine person to ever wear the cloth. But the thought of dealing with him now, no doubt in his usual drunken state through having access to the well-stocked cellar, was best avoided. He was just about to order he be carried back to the vicarage when Grady replied.
‘The reverend declined to take anything of that nature, sir. But he has asked for and been served with tea twice.’
The servant’s expression was, as ever, devoid of expression, unlike his employer’s, whose eyebrows shot up in surprise: the man was a true soak whose antics, after being at the bottle, rarely failed to make Henry snicker, as much for the depressing effect it had on the man’s long-suffering wife as the embarrassment itself. Perhaps to take his mind off things the cleric was just the company he needed, so he said, in what he thought was a jocose tone, that brandy had better be served now.
‘For myself as well,’ was added as an afterthought.
Entering his study suppressed any feeling of humour. The man’s ruddy, vinous face, once he stood to greet his host, left Henry in no doubt Moyle was in some way troubled. He was, as ever, an unprepossessing sight, his black waistcoat stretched over a substantial belly of strained buttons. Along with the lapels of his coat, it was covered with traces of snuff and food that had missed its target; above this and a worried countenance, the pepper-and-salt hair as unruly as ever. The only oddity was his sobriety. ‘I’ve had a letter from the bishop, Henry.’
‘Which surely must rank as a first.’ He not being the type to correspond with high clerics, the attempt at wit did not go down well, very much the reverse, which prompted an obvious question. ‘On the subject of what?’
‘Surely you can guess?’
‘Joshua, you’re the second person today to require I deduce something from thin air. It failed to amuse on the first occasion.’
‘It asks if there were any irregularities I wish to admit to, in the marriage of Spafford and Elisabeth.’
‘I’m surprised he even knows it took place.’
‘I told you, I had a visit from his secretary.’
Henry replied absent-mindedly as he went to stand before the fire. ‘So you did, and now you’ve had a letter asking about irregularities, to which you can surely reply there were none.’
‘When we both know it not to be the case?’ came out as protest. ‘No banns were called, added to which the ceremony took place in this very room, not as is required by law in a consecrated place.’
‘To none of which you are required to admit.’
‘Someone is putting about the truth, Henry.’
The door opened and Grady entered bearing a silver tray, the crystal of both glasses and the decanter catching the light of the candles and the flames of the fire, which covered the fact of Henry deducing the culprit, for there could only be one. Silently Grady laid the tray down and proceeded to pour the drinks, his presence rendering any further discussion impossible, minds not as restful as their tongues.
Moyle was in a true bind: he owed his living at Cottington to the Tulkington family, which meant his home and his stipend. The church lay in the grounds of the estate, so no authority could impose a priest. They could propose, but the final decision lay with the family, or to be more precise a man he dare not upset. But the diocese could remove him from clerical orders and oblige Henry to find another prelate. He would not have been reassured if he had known what Henry was thinking: Spafford was dead, so what did it matter? However, Moyle required to be reassured.
‘Someone who would lack anyone to corroborate his gossip. No one in this house will say a word.’
‘Except Elisabeth. The letter asks to be allowed the names of the assenting parties so the diocese can communicate with them.’
‘In writing?’
‘I assume so.’
Henry picked up one of the filled glasses and handed it to Moyle, knowing a reassuring fib was required to settle his concerns. ‘I shall make sure all correspondence coming into this house is brought to me, regardless of the superscription. The servants and my aunt will say what they’re told. Elisabeth? Best leave it to me, while you and I can say whatever is needed to see them off.’
Moyle took the glass of brandy, the only thing to ease Henry’s state of mind. His worried guest had resurrected a concern which had lain dormant for most of the day, one the non-divine Moyle nailed right away.
‘And what about Harry Spafford?’
‘I shouldn’t go concerning yourself about him, Joshua.’
Having sent the reverend home, under his own sail for once, Henry ordered a negus as a nightcap, prior to retiring. Sat in a chair watching the fire turn to ash, he set his mind to all the problems which assailed him, determined to examine them objectively, refusing to allow his frustrations to boil over into anger. What he’d just been told about ecclesiastical interference was added to the mound, another matter requiring attention, lest it grow from irritation into trouble, one telling factor being an alarmed Moyle could not be relied upon.
The earlier brandy had relaxed him while the sweet and spicy negus added to the mood. In such a state of mind, if solutions did not emerge, potential ways of proceeding did, first and foremost being how to deal with his sister. The twitch of his lips, which grew to a smile, convinced him he’d alighted on a clever ploy, though being a careful man it required to be thoroughly examined before being acted upon. If it failed to work, he could fall back on his previous notion of mental instability. Tested more than once, mentally argued, in which his views naturally carried the day, he went to his desk to take up his quill and pen a note. A ring of the servant bell ensured, when he made for the stairs and his bed, Grady was waiting for him, holding a five-branch candlestick.
‘Oblige me by seeing my sister gets this first thing in the morning.’
It was the loud crack of a burning log which woke up Edward Brazier, still in pain but nothing like that which he’d experienced before going to sleep. This tempted him to sit up, movement reminding him sharply of the wound, which had him gritting his teeth. But he refused to stop, albeit it was a slow and careful effort. Sat up, he looked around with a more focused eye than hitherto, noting the dwelling seemed to consist of only one room, sparsely furnished. All needed for existence was within.
His mind was now clear enough to think through what needed to be done, which brought into sharp focus the amount he didn’t know, like what had happened to Dutchy and the rest after he had been sent away. They might be armed but they were also seriously outnumbered, which brought on the depressing notion he’d not only led them into a trap, they could possibly have paid a greater price than he.
Brazier soon refused to consider the thought: he knew them to be resourceful and bloody-minded fighters and had seen them in action. Mostly it had been in the boarding of American contraband runners seeking to access the British West Indian possessions in which they were not allowed to trade. As members of his barge crew, they went where he went, and a captain known by the soubriquet of ‘The Turk’ was not inclined to leave the task of taking an illegally trading vessel to a subordinate. Many of the contests had been hard fought. Even outnumbered, the Jonathans would not give up without a contest, though they declined to use guns on the very good grounds a 32-gun frigate had a lot more firepower at its disposal. Even cutlasses were rarely employed, which left clubs and fists. While interdicting them, their willingness to take on the King’s Navy engendered a degree of admiration for people who never ducked making a stand.
Fretting on any number of possibilities would get him nowhere. It was necessary to assume them safe until it was established as true or false by contact. To stand up required a very straight-held back, made harder by the seeming weakness of his legs. Nor did he feel steady when upright, so taking a step came with the risk of a fall. If not quite a stagger to the fireplace it was close, while it needed a hand on the mantle to secure himself. His dark-blue coat, of good quality though bought second-hand in Deal, was hanging to one side. Lifting it told him the purse it contained was there, with it a decent sum in coin, soon confirmed as he fetched it out along with his Hunter case timepiece. Would the man who’d tended to him accept a reward for his endeavours and, if he would, what should it be? That could wait, right now anything to ease his pain was the primary concern.
He felt the heat from the flames licking around the logs, which told him this was a recently stoked-up fire. The same hand was used to keep him upright as he slowly turned to let the heat play on his back, which was welcome but too scorching to stay still for long. While he was contemplating moving to the sole chair in the room, his saviour entered, carrying a dead chicken and a basket of vegetables, frowning before smiling, which presented a fine set of teeth.
‘I recall my late master and I tended to different types of people, sir − those who would lie still and beg attention and others who would never do what they were told, even for their own good. Odd the ones who died were often not the disobedient.’
‘I need to get a message to some people, one I doubt I’m in a fit state to deliver.’
‘In a day or two, perhaps.’
‘Sooner.’
‘To reassure them you’re still alive?’ Brazier nodded. ‘And you wish me to take it?’
‘All I require is you take the horse to a certain person, tell him of my condition, then bring it back again so I may use it when I’m fit enough to ride.’
‘This tells me you think you have people to fear, sir.’
Forgetting his wound, Brazier shrugged and winced, which delayed his response. ‘I have no idea if there are.’
‘But you wish to be safe by thinking the worst.’
‘I will go myself if you decline.’
‘And where is it you would wish me to go, sir?’
‘A livery stable outside Deal. I will give you directions.’
‘The day is nearly gone.’
‘At first light, then?’
The feathery and limp object in his hand was held up. ‘After some food, sir.’
‘And more sleep,’ Brazier replied, not seeking to hide the fact he was still weak by moving to plonk himself on the battered sea chest. ‘I think perhaps I should tell you my name. Edward Brazier.’
‘Would it trouble you to tell me more, sir?’
‘Perhaps when you tell me about yourself.’ This got a chuckle so deep it sounded as if it was coming from his boots. ‘You must admit to being rare in these parts.’
‘A slave, you mean?’
‘A free black man and seemingly a farmer.’
Tempted to tell him about Joe Lascelles, Brazier decided to hold back until he knew more of this man. Asked why, he could not have said but he felt it right. Anyway, Zachary was ready to oblige, plucking the bird as he spoke, first of a life of slavery on another farm, albeit a bigger one, where the work could be back-breaking.
‘My master was not an unkind man, or it would be best to say he did not know when he was acting so, which made my sudden change of owner a blessing.’ The curious look brought another low chuckle. ‘I was lost in a game of cards, sir, or as the Good Lord no doubt intended, saved by a poor wager.’
Gentle questioning revealed more. The 3rd Regiment of Foot had bivouacked in his original master’s fields in Pennsylvania, the officers billeted in the farmhouse over several days. This included the regimental surgeon, Mr Venables, to whom he’d come as winnings.
‘And he brought you back to England when the war was over?’ Zachary, now gutting the bird, acknowledged the obvious, with Brazier tapping the chest on which he was sitting. ‘And this is his?’
‘Passed over into the hands of the Lord, two seasons past now. He left me all he owned, as well as livestock and this house, to hold and live by till I join him.’
‘No other family?’
‘None.’
‘The crop?’
‘Cherries first, and fine they are too. Pickings of them are over for this year, sir, but the trees still need lookin’ after. Then hops in summer and apples in the autumn. Whatever I grow, God sees fit to try and inflict them with pestilence.’
‘Perhaps it’s the devil.’
A deep laugh. ‘I’d take real pleasure in fightin’ him, sir.’
‘Can I say, you seem well educated?’
‘I was taught to speak well, like a Yankee gentleman. I would only be educated if I could read and write.’
Zachary talked on as he cut up some vegetables, potatoes and carrots, finally filling the room with the sharp tang of onions, all his efforts going into a pot, which was hung on a hook above the fire, describing his early years as a slave boy, born in the New York colony, sold on when he began to reach maturity to work the plough, dig the plots and bring in the harvest. There was no resentment in his words, more a seeming acceptance the Almighty, often referred to, had decided how his life would be lived.
Listening, Brazier could not help but contrast it with what he’d seen of the fate of those violently dragged from their African homes, then packed into ships manned by sheer devils incarnate, chained below decks in vessels of which it was best not to be downwind, so great was the rancid smell. Having boarded one mid-Atlantic and seen the conditions in which the soon-to-be slaves were transported and abused, Brazier never wanted to experience it again. It had also affected his attitude to the institution of slavery: gone was the ignorance which allowed for complacency, to be replaced with deep repugnance, a feeling from which Joe Lascelles had benefited when he was brought aboard. This Zachary had enjoyed the same good fortune.
‘You have been lucky.’
‘I have been blessed, sir. Now, am I allowed to ask of you?’
Edward Brazier obliged, but it was a much-filleted explanation of his past and naval career, though he was open about his own father having been a naval surgeon.
‘Then it may be we can see each other as brothers, sir, for I think of Mr Venables as a parent to me.’ Seeing Brazier made curious, he pointed to the chest on which he was sitting. Looking closely, the name could be made out. ‘You have no need to tell me of the wound, sir, if you do not choose to.’
‘Oh, I shall, but it will make me sound like a fool.’
By the time he finished a severely edited version of events, which did not name people or places, the chicken was cooked and, as they ate, Zachary took the liberty of agreeing with him.
Dirley Tulkington went about his task with a growing sense of frustration. The way the candles, which illuminated his efforts, burnt down seemed to reflect the way his present standing was progressing. He only ever worked on these ledgers, related to the family business, when his chambers were closed and everyone else had gone home: they were for the eyes of only him and his nephew. His task was to ensure everything added up: income, expenditure, plus a list of goods outstanding, which required a good head for figures added to the acute memory of a successful King’s Counsel.
While it was easy to seek certain items be despatched to the East Kent shore, it was not always possible for the French suppliers, due to the number of internal tariff borders in their country, to meet every order in a given time. Every region of France had its own tolls and taxes, which were jealously guarded. A number of these had to be circumvented, depending where the contraband was sourced. This often left much outstanding, which made achieving any kind of ongoing balance a formidable task.
His quill moved quickly despite his darkening mood, a sharp mind going about a task with which he was utterly familiar. In his head he had discreet and verbal orders for those with whom he had social contact in the capital, many people of wealth and position, even in government, who nevertheless felt disinclined to pay to the Exchequer the impost added as duty. Other outlets, such as hotels, gentlemen’s clubs, dubious establishments from bagnios to brothels – and gender was not an issue – contacts built up over a long time, would drop off discreet coded notes at his home stating their requirements, plus the funds needed to secure delivery. A servant, one unable to read, was sent from Cottington Court to drop off at his chambers what was required in the areas served by his nephew, Kent and Sussex.
The source of his growing annoyance came from the way Henry had behaved on his most recent visit to London and it could not be explained away by his having too much to drink and a light head. When Dirley’s half-brother Acton passed away, and it was sudden, his nephew, somewhat gauche and never having been fully briefed regarding the family business, lacked the skills necessary to oversee what was quite a complex enterprise. Thus, he’d relied on him for guidance, being properly respectful of the difference which existed between them in both age and experience.
This had been declining over some time, as Henry’s confidence grew, which was only to be expected, acceptable until they came to what Dirley expected would be an equitable partnership. It was one in which the nephew naturally drew a higher proportion of the profits than the uncle, which to Dirley was only proper: the business had been the creation of his half-brother Acton, building on old Corley’s rather rough efforts.
It was, however, incumbent on him, to his uncle’s way of thinking, such a disparity remain unmentioned; they were in a partnership and good manners dictated it should be addressed as one of equals. Henry had breached the bounds by the way he’d behaved days past and it continued to rankle, issuing what very much sounded like instructions, if not downright demands, documents to be prepared within hours, as if his uncle had nothing else to do but meet his every whim.
This was in place of what they should and would have been in the recent past: appropriately submitted requests to which he would have been happy to accede. Other things troubled him, not least, the more he thought on it, the information that his niece, a widow still constrained by her period of mourning for Stephen Langridge, albeit said period was close to completion, had seemingly suffered a coup de foudre, entering into a sudden marriage with a handsome young fellow in a matter of weeks of their first meeting.
Dirley might be a bachelor, but he’d been witness to many idiocies in the matrimony line, some of which had required clients to be rescued from their own folly. What he was being told did not make sense. If he didn’t know Elisabeth as well as he would like – his illegitimate birth had limited contact with those resident at Cottington Court – he found it hard to see someone he rated as eminently sensible act in such an untoward fashion.
Who was this Harry Spafford and why was he intent on handing over control of Elisabeth’s Jamaica plantations to Henry, the documents to complete this required in such haste? In her previous correspondence, Elisabeth had stated her intention to sell them due to a dislike of their being worked by slaves. Could this Spafford fellow have so charmed her she would meekly change her mind?
It was, of course, no longer strictly her decision, there being no entail: on marriage her assets became the property of her husband and he could dispose of them as he saw fit. Yet there had been something in the explanation provided by Henry which jarred. He maintained Spafford had no head for figures or any interest in matters of business, was fearful of the task of management, so was quite content to pass control of the plantations and the considerable income they produced to his brother-in-law, which would be passed on after expenses were deducted.
An admired legal brain, Dirley Tulkington was sure he could smoke anyone dissembling in a flash. Henry’s throwaway manner, as he advanced this explanation, had set his hackles twitching. The letter of congratulation he’d sent to his niece was his way of making sure, by inviting her and her new spouse to visit him for two reasons. He wanted to cast an eye over Spafford to ensure he was no mere fortune-hunter; the other was to find out if what he was being told by Henry was the truth.
He’d not yet received a reply from Elisabeth, which was unlike her. A properly brought up young lady, who had taken assiduous care to regularly keep in touch from the West Indies, would surely reply − and indeed, had done so − from East Kent, his missives responded to by return from there in the past. So why not now? Given his troubled reflections, this decided him, after he’d finished his tasks and locked away the ledgers in his safe, to write to Elisabeth again.