A Lawless Place Page 11

  The way Saoirse paused, which was lengthy, added to the look that crossed her face caused Brazier to wonder what was going through her mind. He had said she would know if anything was being planned that might cause him trouble, given she obviously knew a great deal of what was going on in the town. As the owner of a place of drinking and pleasure, people confided in Saoirse, but that did not necessarily mean she would tell him.

  The proof of that had been in the guarded way she had related to him certain things about Henry Tulkington, matters she had hitherto kept to herself. Even when she opened up, it had come with reservations. Saoirse had a certain standing in Deal and made no secret of dealing in smuggled goods herself. This she did through John Hawker, buying fine wines and good brandy, dispensed to the better class of clients in her card room.

  Brazier was aware that an initial fascination, for she was striking to look at and he was a red-blooded male, had moved to admiration. This was only partly shaped because she was an unmarried woman in charge of an establishment like the Old Playhouse, remarkable in itself. That she more than held her own in a place like Deal, which was rough and violent, like all the places where ships berthed and tars took their pleasure, made it doubly so.

  First met in the company of Vincent Flaherty, it had become obvious the Irishman was infatuated, the impression given on introduction being that she liked him, but did not reciprocate his feelings. With her red hair and beguiling figure, Saoirse was one to take the eye of every man in a room. This she allied to the easy manner of a born hostess, able to indulge in banter, exercise a sharp wit, be flippant and, if required, rigidly firm.

  Even before she took him in, after his beating, Brazier had sensed she liked him and it was mutual, which made their exchanges comfortable. But even with all the help she had afforded him, Saoirse Riorden was one to put her own needs first. He would never ask her to risk her livelihood, for the very simple reason he knew she would refuse. The question now posed was a way to jog her, to bring her back to his reason for calling, given he had the distinct impression she was holding something back.

  ‘You say he’s a smuggler, this Dan Spafford?’

  The reply came after another lengthy pause for consideration. ‘In a small way and at loggerheads with Hawker, which, if what is implied by gossip is true, then with Tulkington too.’

  ‘Yet he has married the son, a wastrel you say, to Betsey.’

  There was no need for either to remark it made no sense. Saoirse then proved, just as he had not told her about abducting a dazed Hawker, she too had held back on something she could have told him the day before, but had chosen not to, perhaps to spare his feelings.

  ‘Not four days past, Harry Spafford was snatched off the street by John Hawker, dragged by his collar to the slaughterhouse, which is Hawker’s place of business. It’s not somewhere anyone of sense would want to be, even freely entered, what with the rumours of things that take place there. For a weakling like Harry Spafford …’

  Brazier did not blench when told what he could have been threatened with; he had heard the same story too often to give it any credence. It was one related to the gullible by sailors in every port he had ever visited, as well as joked about in the wardrooms of the ships in which he had served. It was a common myth, though given the way Saoirse was describing it, he knew debunking it would be unwise.

  ‘Dan Spafford would not take that well,’ she concluded.

  ‘Which perhaps tells me Trotter’s purpose. An offer to join forces, perhaps?’

  ‘Sure, I don’t know the ins and outs, Edward, but Spafford is no match for what I reckon you’re up against.’

  ‘Which brings me back to my request.’

  ‘Jesus,’ she exclaimed, ‘I could be sorry for the day you ever darkened my door.’

  Which he knew was as good as a yes.

  John Hawker never found it easy to pass along Beach Street with anything approaching haste; too many people wanted to catch his eye and engage his ear. A man who seemed to know the doings of the Revenue Service was a fellow with whom to be friendly. There was not a soul who made their living on the beach who had not, at some time, crossed to France to purchase and run contraband.

  Always a swift dash, it was carried out when opportunity presented itself, with the wind and sea state favourable, added to a combination of men and funds put together for the purpose. Nor was it always under sail; men who rowed for a living, servicing the hundreds of vessels who used the Downs anchorage, had the muscles for over twenty miles of endurance and double that on a dark enough night.

  On a calm sea, with the moon cloud obscured, they could cross the Goodwin Sands at high tide and get to the opposite shore in a matter of hours. Nothing heavy like brandy, which would weigh down the boat, would be purchased. The easiest, lightest and most profitable artefact to smuggle was tea. Thus, every man on an oar would be wearing a specially sewn oilskin waistcoat, which could hold thirty pounds of leaf.

  On his perambulations, and because he was trusted, John Hawker often heard about the planned dash, while gentle enquiry usually told him at what point on the beach the galley would be coming ashore. It was necessary, once a landfall was made, in case the Revenue men were waiting, to disperse quickly and store the contraband in preordained places no search would uncover.

  Hawker then had a choice: whether to alert the excisemen and tell them where to wait, or to direct them to another spot, far enough away from the proposed landing to foil interdiction, and how that was decided was his to make. He could give them a sprat of a collar, which kept them satisfied and away from the cargoes Tulkington had coming in by ship. Or he could enhance his reputation with the boatmen as the fellow who could fool the law and send them chasing shadows.

  In spreading the rumour about Brazier, Hawker was too shrewd to accuse him of anything. All he did was hint at something to be found odd, in a town where the same people saw each other every day and where a stranger, of some presence and odd habits, stood out and was the subject of comment anyway.

  ‘Full post captain an’ full of hisself. Got to enquire, if he ain’t got a ship, what’s the bugger doin’ here, don’t you reckon?’

  There was no need to use anything other than the name. A stranger this sailor sod might be, but he was one mad enough to swim in the sea of a morning, which was observed by some, to be then talked about by many. The boatmen of Deal, whatever their particular daily grind, saw immersion in the waters they lived by and from as close to insanity.

  ‘I’m told he’s been seen visiting Walmer Castle, as well, when Pitt was residing there. Hugger-mugger I heard they were.’

  That was a name to set local blood boiling; these where the very men whose boats William Pitt had ordered burnt, with no hint that they might be compensated for their loss. It had thrown the whole community in debt, as new craft had to be built, though that had been partially alleviated by a collection of funds from the better heeled citizenry, not least Henry Tulkington, which came with a degree of self-interest.

  The prosperity of the town depended on it being able to serve the ships that berthed offshore. The local traders supplied meat, ship’s biscuit, fresh vegetables, small beer and spirits, as well as the thousands of articles a sailing ship required to be safe at sea and the only way to load those articles was by boat or hoy.

  Suspicion planted, it only required the possibility of a revenue spy to spread – not hard since it was held, as a fact, that the town had hidden away such creatures already. It could never be accepted that smugglers interdicted and arrested had fallen to anything like bad luck. It had to be a loose tongue or malevolent and secret observation. So, seed planted, John Hawker could go about his affairs, knowing his task was complete.

  The matter he thought hard on now was more complex: how to be a part of what would follow, without his presence being too obvious, this not made easy by his face being known to all. For a fellow who held himself in high esteem, the way he had been humiliated by Brazier and his tars could not be reme
died by any other hand than his own, though he was obliged to admit he would need help, given their numbers.

  Could he get himself and his men close enough to exact physical revenge before what would follow took place? There was little doubt it would be an ordeal by fire, for that was the way of the Deal mob of boatmen when feeling threatened. The very least a soul railing against smuggling could expect − and there were some, like the Methodists, Baptists and the Temperance League − was their meeting houses reduced to ash in the middle of the night.

  The worst fear was that the torch-carrying multitude would set fire to such places when they were within, leaving them the choice to die in the flames or exit, which was inevitable, to face a sound beating. Magistrates could huff and puff in the following days and promise retribution and arrests, but finding anyone to swear against another was impossible.

  It was also the case that such officials, men who lived in close proximity to the culprits, were shy of being too stern, their own safety and property being a toothsome target for revenge. So they could shake their heads and ask, had these evangelicals not brought down their fate upon their own heads? Another motive for laxity was easy to surmise: they benefited themselves from smuggling, and besides, King Canute had as much chance of reversing an incoming tide as they had of putting a stopper on the trade.

  As Hawker made his way through the town, calling at the various enterprises to examine their accounts and collect the taxes due, he added to his rumour-mongering in those places where it would have an effect, all the while cogitating on his own concern. He reasoned he would have to get in to Quebec House first, to exact what he needed, before the worked-up crowd got going.

  This would take a few days, so the rumour gained force and resentment had time to fester, allowing the feeling of being threatened to grow until collective anger would begin to combust. Hawker reasoned it would happen once night fell, and enough drink had been consumed to take growing bitterness at a perceived injustice to action.

  It would begin with a few of the more raucous and gullible souls, men who lived in a general state of the ever hard done by. As it left the taverns and coursed through the streets, it would, like a boulder rolling down a hill, gather other discontents, or the merely excitable, until the watchmen, poorly paid and few in number, would reckon on discretion and quietly melt away.

  By that time, Hawker needed to have taken his personal revenge. Then he had to get Spafford and his men to the fore, so there could be no backsliding. They were tasked to lead the crowd, to throw the stones that would smash the windows, at which point they could melt away and return to their hovel in Worth.

  There was always a chance he could catch Brazier when he was out of Quebec House, in which case he needed to be able to act swiftly. With that as a possibility he knew what he needed as well as where to find it. The urchins of Deal had several favoured spots where they would congregate to drink gin when they could afford it. That usually depended on a successful run of picking pockets in the bustle of the Lower Valley Road or Middle Street. The churchyard behind St George’s Church was one of their chosen spots, where the gravestones provided a bit of shelter from the wind, if not the chill.

  ‘Here,’ he said, passing out a handful of copper. ‘There’s double that if I get what I needs.’

  Knowing John Hawker as a man of his word and often inclined to be generous, as well as one to be afeared of if crossed, they were eager to do his bidding. So he was sure neither Brazier, or his tars, would be able to so much as twitch an eyebrow without him being told of it.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Henry Tulkington had already seen off Harry Spafford, sent away in the dog cart with the funds to travel on to Chatham, as well as monies to fund his habits. He was now making his own preparations to depart for London, when the request that Elisabeth be allowed a visit to Annabel Colpoys was mooted. Even if he reckoned there was no choice but to agree, he made his aunt wait for a reply as he appeared to mull it over: he did not want her to think his acquiescence came without reservations.

  ‘It cannot be today. I will be travelling to Dover to pick up the mail coach.’

  ‘Henry, we are in possession of more than one conveyance.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, but if Elisabeth goes off the estate, it will be in the Berlin and my coachmen will be with her.’

  ‘So you’re going to London?’ was cover for her being at a loss to say anything else.

  ‘Obviously.’

  Sarah Lovell was tempted to say nothing was obvious where he was concerned, but took refuge in triviality, given Henry seemed to have no intention of enlightening her as to what he would be doing. She felt she needed to know.

  ‘To visit your Uncle Dirley?’

  ‘Why else?’ came with a note of exasperation. ‘There are many things that require to be resolved. I doubt I have to explain what they are.’

  ‘Would I be allowed to point out again, since Elisabeth will not speak with you, I have become the link? In that situation it would help if I were to know what you had planned, so I can answer her enquiries.’

  Henry’s face showed how little he liked her tone.

  ‘Please forgive me if I’ve been too direct, Nephew, but I feel the circumstances warrant it.’

  He took a while to see the sense, even longer to respond, so his dignity was not punctured. ‘I need proper legal documentation on various matters, not least the power of attorney to manage the West Indian plantations. Their value must be preserved and that can only be done if the persons supervising the estates are reporting to someone who can properly scrutinise their activities.’

  ‘Can I at least tell Elisabeth there is no plan to send her back to Jamaica?’

  She meant her and Harry Spafford, this a thought that horrified aunt as much as niece, with the added fear she might be sent with them. She recalled the West Indies with nothing approaching fondness and the journey even less so. It had been too often spent groaning in a cot in which she had been both sick and violently thrown out of by the state of the sea.

  ‘None at present,’ came with an arch look, which implied it could be a future possibility. ‘I have, as you know, removed Spafford from Cottington and he will be kept at a distance, unless …’

  If it was necessary, because of the significant pause, to read between the lines − and there was ample space to do so − Harry Spafford would behave in whatever way Henry wished and that would include exercising his matrimonial rights. Confined to property, that was one thing, but how far would Henry go if Elisabeth sought to defy him? Judging by his actions already, there was no way to tell, but everything was possible.

  ‘There are agreements Spafford will be required to sign, which I will see to on my way back.’

  ‘You have yet to say where that will take place.’

  ‘Why, Aunt Sarah, would you need to know that? As to the Colpoys’ visit, I suggest, since I require the coach, Elisabeth pen a note asking to call, which I will see delivered. Perhaps tomorrow, if it’s convenient to them.’

  Henry went back to the papers he was no doubt preparing for London so, without any acknowledgment, she was able to stand and depart. The door closed on a man pondering on the instructions he would be required to issue to his coachmen when they were carrying his sister. One always carried a loaded and primed pistol in case of highwaymen, but perhaps it would be best if both were armed from now on, to protect against any attempt by Brazier to kidnap her.

  Henry had no doubt, should it happen, it would involve weapons. The road leading to Cottington Court should be seen to be clear before Elisabeth went off the estate. The sod could have no prior knowledge of her movements, if any, so would be reduced to standing and watching in hope.

  The note to Annabel Colpoys was sent down by Sarah Lovell and he recognised Elisabeth’s firm style with the quill. That, once read, went into a drawer, while he wrote another to Roger Colpoys. It was couched in very much the same vein, friendly, with the added point that since Roger did not see Henr
y’s sister often, it might be a good idea for him to be present to entertain her.

  Told his coach was waiting, he gave instructions, once it was sanded and sealed, for his note to be delivered. His next orders were given to the two men who attended him when travelling, his first words the far-from-surprising information his sister would use it to travel. But more followed.

  ‘At whichever destination to which you take my sister, you’re to stand guard at the entrance and allow no one past who is not connected to the household. Is that understood?’

  The assent was murmured, for it was beyond curious. But clearly, it had been taken on board, as was his luggage and eventually himself, this after he had instructed Upton, his head groom, of another stricture. Prior to Elisabeth and his aunt departing the estate, a stable boy should be sent to survey the road outside for any sign of lurking strangers.

  If it was true those who served Henry Tulkington were in dread of his poor opinion, and would obey whatever instructions he issued, that did not preclude quiet speculation, especially between the senior retainers. The cook was close to Lionel Upton, the head groom, neither being in the first flush of youth. They would have, if it had been possible, moved from affection to a more formal connection. This required the courage to ask their master for permission, talked about often and postponed every time. What if he said no?

  Grady and Upton were, with the gardener, Creevy, the top trio of servitors. That said, the one who claimed green fingers was not trusted, given he was too often seen grovelling to Tulkington, even when it was not required. So when Grady and Upton had their quiet chats, he was always excluded. This was seen as even more essential now, given the speculation regarding what had occurred a few days past, matters that still lacked clarity.

  It had been discussed on the morning of revelation, even if the task of making a logical deduction was impossible. It had to be, for there was no one it was safe to ask regarding clarification. The other servants, if they were curious, were keeping their thoughts to themselves. If the master kept rigid control, Sarah Lovell, who ran Cottington Court domestically, was not one to care if she was liked or hated.