Enemies at Every Turn Page 8

  Not a man aboard was without a task and Toby found himself once more plying back and forth to an opposed shore in charge of a boat full of redcoats, as he had done off San Fiorenzo only weeks before. Nelson was already ashore with Colonel Vilette on what was now a packed strand, watching pathways being cut to the top, and when the commodore spotted him he called out to give him instructions.

  ‘Mr Burns, I want you to go back aboard Agamemnon, fetch ashore Sir Gilbert Elliot and I want you to take care of him. Damn me, if he takes a ball I will have to deal with the Corsicans myself, and that would never do, for I am no politico.’

  Mistaking the crestfallen look on the youngster’s face, Nelson was emollient.

  ‘It is not, I grant, a duty in which a lad may distinguish himself, Mr Burns, but from what I have heard you have garnered enough to be going on with and regardless of my promise to Sir William I must give opportunity to my own youngsters first.’

  As the import of those words sunk in, really a statement that Nelson was not going to push him into deadly combat to please Hotham, Toby smiled and was forced to shout his reply over the sound of cannon and musket fire.

  ‘I am happy to be of any service you require, sir.’

  ‘Well said, Mr Burns,’ Nelson cried. ‘My God, you are an example.’

  By the time Toby got Sir Gilbert ashore most of the ordnance had been landed, paths had been widened, skirmishers had ascended to protect the landing area and there were sailors above their heads lashing great leather straps and single-block pulleys round the most prominent rocks.

  ‘Would you look at these crags,’ Sir Gilbert cried, his Scottish accent very pronounced. ‘They’re steeper than Minto.’

  The shout, which left Toby Burns wondering where in the name of creation Minto might be, made an officer standing right in front of them turn. As he did so, he lifted his hat, which revealed the thin sandy hair and skeletal face of Lieutenant Glaister, who had been premier of HMS Brilliant under Ralph Barclay. For Toby it was not a happy moment – the Highlander was not a man who loved him, evident in the cold glare. What followed, and it did not include him, was an exchange of names and Caledonian courtesies.

  ‘How will you get these damn things up those crags, Mr Glaister?’

  ‘With great ease, Sir Gilbert.’

  Which proved the case, despite the look of doubt on the diplomat’s face; the tars, having set up their pulleys, gathered ropes to their hands and, on a command, proceeded to run down the precipitous rock. The cannon, the slings that encased them lashed to other ropes, went up smoothly, never once touching stone, as the collective bodies of the sailors acted as counterweights to their metal.

  Other paths, into which narrow steps had been hacked out, provided a means of ascent for the main body of redcoats and before the day was out the whole panoply of Nelson’s force was above the escarpment, with Corsican skirmishers well forward so that the next stage, the construction of battery positions within range of the walls, could be carried out.

  That night was spent ashore, under a mass of stars, with hundreds of fires burning that pungent undergrowth, scenting the air with arbutus, myrtle and thyme. Out at sea, the squadron, HMS Agamemnon and five frigates, were lit from bow to stern, while to the north and west other pinpricks of light showed where the Corsicans were encamped, so that the defenders of Bastia could be in no doubt as to how parlous was their condition when it came to the prospects of resistance.

  Back on board, taking an example from the great cabin, everyone who could write was penning an addition to their serial letters, a near-daily account of their life afloat – missives that would, when the chance presented itself, be put aboard one of the regular packets that sailed to and from home carrying despatches.

  Toby Burns, who had not written home for a long time, joined in, though he struggled to think of what to say to his family once he had composed a less than flattering pen portrait of the commodore, also adding the strange nature of the adulation Nelson seemed to be able to inspire.

  He did describe the recent events in his life: the struggle over the snowbound Pass of Teghime, a mere dozen miles from San Fiorenzo to Bastia but seeming so much longer, the death of the marine officer called Driffield in the fiasco of a land battle and the receipt of his wound while retreating, which he pleasingly managed to make sound much more serious than it had truly been.

  Words of affection he found more difficult and he could not put in to a letter what he really wanted to impart, that as of this moment, he would rather be anywhere else in the world than sat off the Corsican coast, sure in the knowledge that battle would be joined on the morrow and that he would be required to participate.

  Later, as he lay awake, listening to the snoring all around him, he conjured up any number of scenarios in which he was killed or maimed, until, with a vision in his mind of the rolling sheep-filled fields of home, of wooded copses and burbling streams, the whole more sylvan than it was in truth, he drifted off to sleep.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Codge was not the sort of person with whom Alderman Denby Carruthers normally dealt and the initial request for an interview, based on a description of the supplicant provided by his clerk, had been rebuffed. But the city worthy was dealing with a man who, if he was a veritable snake in the grass, was also very shrewd and well versed in the ways of manipulating people, and not just the gullible.

  He sent in a slip of paper with the simple inscription ‘Gherson’ written on it. Looking at the name nearly stopped the alderman’s heart; though it was one that occurred to him from time to time, always with pangs of several different emotions, none of them pleasant, it was not one he had ever expected to see written down. He sat looking at it for some time, wondering what it portended.

  That it was like a ghost in his household he knew; his relationship with his wife had been strained ever since he had disposed of the man who had cuckolded him. Firstly because he had disappeared, this after a confrontation in which all the sordid details of what had been going on had been aired, with he in a towering rage and she in tears. Secondly because later that same night, without explanation and in silence, he had burnt in front of her the fine coat he had had removed from Gherson just before the creature had been tossed over the parapet of London Bridge.

  The garment had been bought for him by Catherine Carruthers from her household monies; it was his way of telling her he was gone for good, though he would never admit to how it had come about, or say he was dead. Had someone talked? Had what he had ordered done, and actually overseen, been witnessed? What was the meaning of this slip of paper and who was this fellow in his outer chambers, this early in the day, with the single name of Codge?

  He did not want to see the man but he knew he would be forced to, for to send him away would leave him wondering about the nature of the call, though he suspected blackmail, which had him running through his mind to see to whom he could turn if it was the case. Then he realised his clerk, Lavery, the man who had replaced Gherson, long in years, jug-eared and unprepossessing with it, was still before his desk.

  ‘This fellow, you say he is of the lower orders?’

  ‘Very much so, judging by his clothing, sir.’

  ‘Is there anything else about him?’

  ‘He seems very sure of himself – cocky, I would say.’

  Denby Carruthers made a great play of taking out his watch from his waistcoat and looking at it, really giving himself time to think, that was until he had an uncomfortable reflection, which had him waving the slip of paper, now refolded.

  ‘Did you look at this?’

  ‘No, sir, I was expressly told not to. It was for your eyes alone.’

  ‘It refers to a piece of business I am unsure of, Lavery.’

  ‘Do you wish for my opinion, sir?’

  The ‘no’ was too sharp, too revealing. ‘Send the creature in.’

  That Codge had swagger was evident as soon as Carruthers clapped eyes on him, taking in the large frame, the pale skin and l
idded narrow eyes that hinted perhaps at a foreign bloodline. But it was the assurance in the gaze which was most telling, steady blue pupils and no hint of obsequiousness, while the voice with which he introduced himself was a deep confident timbre that made the accompanying expression, ‘At your service’, seem risible.

  To a man who, on a daily basis, made instant trades, high-value investments and disbursements, very much concluded on snap judgements, this Codge reeked of menace.

  ‘I wonder at the meaning of this.’

  Codge looked at the slip of paper, still in the alderman’s hand, and shrugged. ‘I can see the name registered.’

  ‘It is the name of a fellow I once employed.’

  ‘And a fellow who, at one time, you wanted seen to in a certain way.’

  ‘I do not follow,’ Carruthers snapped, but he did.

  His sister’s husband was a prize agent called Druce and very successful he was, with his partner Ommanney operating out of a fine set of offices in the Strand. As well as sea officers, some of their clients served with the impress service and it was that connection which had provided the men to do the necessary to Gherson, Druce willing to oblige with contacts so as to keep the whole matter discreet and thus avoid any disgrace to the wider family – by which really he meant himself.

  Prior to approaching Druce – and he had not told his brother-in-law of this – Carruthers had put out feelers to see if anyone knew of the kind of men who would do what was required before the folly of so open an indication of his intentions struck him. Somehow that request must have reached the ears of this Codge, but why wait so long to bring it up?

  ‘I heard you was willing to pay handsome for the service, too.’

  ‘Then, fellow, you heard wrong.’

  The steady look was still there and the reply had a harder edge than what had been said previously. ‘It’s not often Codge is wrong, as any with a sharp mind will attest to.’

  ‘He is on this occasion, which I think concludes our business.’

  ‘Happen I might tell Gherson, then, that he is safe from your desire to settle.’

  ‘Tell him!’

  Carruthers should have kept the surprise in check, but he could not do so. It was more than just the words, which came out as an exclamation, it was also in the expression on his face, arched eyebrows and stretched fearful skin, to which Codge responded with a slow smile.

  ‘I heard he had been done in proper, and then what occurs? He walks into where I take my leisure, as bold as brass, to makes a lie out of that notion.’

  The words ‘He’s alive’ died in the alderman’s throat, for to use them was tantamount to admitting he had sought his death.

  ‘It strikes me, as I am sitting taking a brew with Gherson, that the piece of work being touted long past might still be sought and that it would yet pay handsome.’

  Denby Carruthers had recovered himself somewhat, his years of experience in business, where the need to conceal his true position was often required, now coming to his aid. He managed to get a degree of doubt into his tone of voice.

  ‘You’re sure it was the Gherson I used to employ?’

  ‘It’s your man all right; corn-coloured hair, girlish lookin’, an easy manner and the values of a sewer rat. There ain’t too many like him.’

  ‘For which the Lord be praised.’

  If the alderman expected a response to that expression he did not get one; what he got was silence, an unblinking stare and a slight smile around Codge’s lips that was close to a sneer. He knew the tactic: say nothing, force the person you are dealing with to keep talking and they will betray something they would rather keep hidden.

  But there was another way to respond, to move matters on. If this Codge was right, and Gherson had somehow survived, he was a greater menace now than hitherto, in a position to threaten the alderman’s life and position, not just his marriage.

  ‘I suspect you came here with some purpose in mind?’

  Codge looked slowly around the well-appointed room, as if to convince himself the walls had no ears, only speaking when his eyes came back to stare at Carruthers. ‘My purpose is usually profit and given I can hand to you som’at that you was once willing to pay substantial to get …’ The voice trailed off, there being no need to elaborate.

  ‘You are offering me your services?’

  ‘Gherson came to me with a proposal. He wants something taken care of which is outside the law – a “commission” you might term it. Now I has a choice, for I am an honest fellow at heart and that might oblige me to hand him over to certain folk, for which, it being the way they work, I would profit by.’

  ‘Would this be before or after you have executed his commission?’

  ‘Now that depends.’

  ‘What would happen to Gherson if it is after?’

  ‘Who knows, Mr Carruthers, but if he was caught in felony it could be the rope or it could be Botany Bay. That would depend on how bloody things get.’

  The delicious thrill that ran through the alderman’s mind then, of Gherson rotting and going to seed in an Australasian penal colony, had to be suppressed, for this matter required careful consideration. Gherson was a threat to his position as long as he was alive but there was little point in removing that hazard only to replace it with the potentially greater one of putting himself in the hands of this fellow before him. Revenge might be sweet but common sense came before that. He was tempted to ask what it was Gherson required of this Codge but he doubted he would be told, for, positions reversed, he would stay silent.

  ‘And you would want from me what?’

  ‘I reckon him to be worth fifty guineas of any decent soul’s money to be got rid of.’

  ‘How long do I have?’

  ‘A day at most would be my guess.’

  ‘It will not surprise you that I need to think on this.’ That got a look, which said ‘It is up to you’. ‘Is there somewhere I can get hold of you?’

  ‘Best I keep in touch, Mr Carruthers, not the other way round. I’ll send a man round tomorrow, early doors, to find out how you want to work it.’

  ‘Very well.’

  With Codge gone Alderman Denby Carruthers sat thinking for quite some time. He then penned a quick note, which once sanded and sealed was handed over to his clerk. ‘Take this to Sir Richard Ford at Bow Street, Lavery, and await his reply.’

  Lavery’s employer was a clever man, rich and successful, but he was not infallible and he was not of the kind to be loved by those who saw to his needs, being peremptory in his manner and unforgiving of minor error. In hiring the man to replace Gherson he had reasoned the last thing he wanted in his house-cumplace of business was another young and handsome rogue, quite failing to realise that an older and less comely fellow might be just as soft on a sweet young lady of a considerate and kindly nature as a fellow her own age.

  Nor did a man, as he grew in years, even one whose ears were like windsails and whose nose was bulbous and purple, ever accept that all hope of romance was lost for, in his breast and imagination, as long as he avoided the mirror, he was still the eager aspirant he had been in his youth.

  Despite Codge’s strict admonition not to, Lavery had looked at the folded but unsealed note and seen Gherson’s name. Having been in position for over a year he had picked up from the other servants the tale of what had gone on before.

  So while Codge was closeted with his employer he had taken the chance to inform Catherine Carruthers of the visit and its purpose, without being able to enlighten her any further. Lavery saw no harm in telling her and he received in return a heart-swelling smile of gratitude, which encouraged him to also inform her, at a subsequent meeting, of where he was now headed.

  ‘What can my husband possibly want with the Bow Street magistrate?’

  ‘Perhaps I may be able to discover that in his reply.’

  The soft hand touched the back of his own, sending a shiver through his bones. ‘You are so kind, Lavery, I do not know what I would do without y
our support.’

  Well beyond the age to skip, Lavery nevertheless felt he was doing so as he headed east from the City to Westminster, quite unaware as he passed through the City gate, for he had never met the fellow, of passing Cornelius Gherson going in the opposite direction to make his rendezvous with Codge.

  As soon as he entered the drinking den, Codge stood and indicated they should go back outside; he was a stickler for never letting anyone overhear his intentions. He walked quite a way, looking backwards continually, Gherson trailing him until they came to the long low mudbank that sided the sluggish Thames. Codge took a seat on a berthing post.

  ‘My lads had a look over the place and it is as simple as kiss my hand. Ground floor, single barred window at the back, though it ain’t a box he’s got but a strongroom behind his desk, which argues at much to keep safe.’

  Gherson just nodded and did not ask how he came by such information – that was his business. He must have sent someone to see the solicitor on a false errand using a made-up name and purpose, that being the usual method. Sufficient it was that the deed had been done.

  ‘The price?’ he asked.

  ‘Twenty guineas.’

  ‘That’s steep.’

  ‘Is it, Gherson? I had to slake a strong thirst to get my lady friend to give the place a look-see, inside an’ out, and the boys to do the deed need paying, just as I am not acting for free.’

  Gherson nodded; he had no intention of arguing, given it was not his money. From his pocket he pulled a note, which had on it details of the meeting place.

  ‘You’re a reading man, Codge, this is where and at what time we will rendezvous.’ Codge read the note then scrunched it up and threw it into the mud; some time that day the tide would come back in and wash it away, but he did not speak for a while, Gherson unaware of his thoughts, which had more to do with increasing his fee than accepting either it or the rendezvous.

  ‘Tonight then, at the White Swan, nine of the clock.’

  ‘That quick?’

  ‘What needs done is best done soonest.’