Letter from a Dead Man Page 26

  To allow plenty of time to dress for the evening ahead, I had arranged for us to dine early, although we did not say much during the meal, our minds being on what lay ahead. After dinner, up in my bedchamber, I dressed with care. I had taken in the breeches round the waist, despite my lack of skill as a needlewoman, and removed the lace from the shirt. I tied back my hair, fixed a large battered old hat firmly on my head with two strong hatpins, and pulled on an ancient coat which had a high collar that hid the length of my hair. Only the shoes were my own, an old, plain and sturdy pair.

  A few minutes later, hearing my uncle’s light tap on the door, I bade him to come in. When he shut the door behind him, I asked breathlessly, ‘Will I do?’

  He didn’t answer at once, but walked slowly round inspecting my appearance, and I soon saw he was grinning. ‘You look every inch a young man.’ And I breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Someone who has fallen on hard times, I would say. Your face is smooth, of course, but that’s often the case with very young men.’

  I asked if he had the money, which I had given him, at his suggestion, as it was best carried close to the skin, and therefore wiser that he remove it when needed.

  He patted his waistline. ‘Yes. All safe and sound.’ His own clothes were the ones he’d worn in prison, kept as a salutary reminder of what he’d suffered, in case he’d said, he ever had a fit of the dismals in the future.

  Mudd was punctual as usual, and following him down the back stairs to the servants’ entrance, we waited here briefly, pretending to adjust our hats, as two grooms walked in chatting. They took no notice of us, and we were soon outside walking in the direction of Broad Street and Portsmouth Point, to take a boat across the harbour.

  To gain confidence in my appearance, I took it upon myself to deal with the watermen. The normal fare across to Gosport was one penny, but it was high tide, and I was informed that the strong north westerly wind meant rowing three quarters of a mile in difficult conditions, and they wouldn’t do it for less than threepence per passenger. Eyeing our clothes, they also insisted on being paid beforehand. Unused as I was to this kind of treatment, I handed over the correct amount without a quibble, grateful to be accepted for what I appeared to be.

  A choppy sea and spray from the waves did not make for a comfortable crossing. The watermen got the worst of it, of course, yet despite that and a biting wind, perspiration began to run down their faces, and every pull on the oars made them grunt with effort. When we finally reached Gosport, I got out of the boat first, gauging my leap at exactly the right moment. My uncle and Mudd quickly followed, and we headed for Middle Street, in the manner of people who knew where they were going. Gosport was a growing town; many officers in the Navy resided here, and there were numerous thriving businesses and shops.

  Walking into Middle Street, Mudd soon led us down a dim and dirty alley. A pale shaft of light allowed us to see the inn at the far end, the sign outside creaking as it swung in the breeze. A woman lounging in a doorway, a clay pipe in her mouth, stared at us as we walked past. Two dogs snarled at each other in a corner, then we heard people running up the alley behind us, and my heart began to pound. Just before they reached us, three men appeared out of the darkness, and our pursuers stopped and ran back the other way. By now, I was more than a little frightened, and thankful to reach the alehouse, I quickly removed my hatpins, slipping them into a pocket as we hurried inside.

  The air had been foul enough out in the alley but inside, the powerful smell of stale ale and gin, mixed with the stench of unwashed bodies and clothes, almost me knocked backwards. The floor looked as if it hadn’t been swept in weeks, smoke from clay pipes thickened the air, and the place seemed to be frequented by sailors, watermen, working men in rough clothes, and for all I knew by pickpockets and thieves too.

  Serving girls laughed and joked with these vulgar men in the most brazen way, but having promised my uncle I would ignore it, I forced myself to do so, difficult though it was not to stare. Mudd led the way, and we squeezed through the crowd to the table where we had been instructed to wait. Sitting down, I soon saw why that particular table had been chosen; for it was in the lightest part of this gloomy establishment, and enabled him to take a good look at us first. The other customers clearly knew not to sit there, for while most tables were crowded, this one remained empty. A fact that made me finger the pistol concealed in the belt under my coat.

  The noise was considerable, even this early in the evening, with people singing raucous songs, the words of which I was glad I could not quite make out. People glanced at us, as they do at strangers, and my uncle said, ‘We had better buy some ale, or it will look odd.’

  He attracted the attention of a serving girl, who soon returned with three tankards of ale. The girl threw me a saucy look and winked. Thankful at being accepted as the man I appeared to be, I winked back and took a large swig of ale. With a merry laugh, she went off to serve her other customers, and I turned to look at my uncle, the ale still in my mouth, for it was so ghastly I could not bring myself to swallow it. My uncle, summing up the situation in a trice, murmured with dancing eyes, ‘Vile stuff, isn’t it. But you must swallow it.’

  Somehow I forced it down without showing distaste, but it was a minute or two before I could bring myself to speak. ‘I’ve never yet tasted ditch water, but I cannot image it to be any worse.’

  A few minutes later someone told us to join a man seated alone in a dark corner. Then those who had looked at us, turned away, as if understanding why we were there. And I guessed this was where the Gosport man conducted his smuggling business.

  Picking up our tankards we threaded our way across the room, coming face to face with a large, strongly built individual wearing seafaring clothes. An ancient black hat was perched on his dark sleazy hair, he was unshaven, pock marked and had filthy fingernails. Yet, in the dim light, I caught a faint glimmer of intelligence in those dark eyes.

  I’d already told Mudd not to behave as a servant, but to sit with us, and act as if we were friends, which he managed very well. The table was a small one, and placing my tankard on it, I sat to the left of the man, with my back to the wall, so that he had to look sideways at me. My uncle settled opposite him, with Mudd facing me. The man looked round at us all, his eyes resting on me longer than the others. I did not lower my gaze, and he grunted as if satisfied.

  ‘Have you got the money?’ His voice was deep and harsh, his accent local. My uncle said that we had. ‘Five hundred?’

  ‘If you tell us what we want to know,’ I promised, speaking in the low voice I had practised. He turned to look at me again, and I asked what he knew about the deaths of Thomas and his son.

  ‘I didn’t do no killing,’ he declared at once, shaking his head at us in a convincing manner. ‘I was only brought in to sink the yacht. Boats I sink are never seen again, and they knew that.’ So that was why no wreckage had been washed ashore. ‘It was the others. They took the man and the boy out to sea—’

  ‘The French smugglers?’ I asked.

  He nodded. ‘I don’t know what they did, only that their orders were it had to look like an accident, or they wouldn’t get paid.’

  I looked down at the table, desperately trying not to think of what the kind Thomas and young Tom must have suffered. ‘How did you know where to find the yacht?’

  ‘He told us.’

  ‘He?’ I reiterated.

  ‘The man who paid us.’

  My heart began to pound. ‘And who was that?’

  ‘I don’t know his name.’

  I groaned inwardly, for I had pinned all my hopes on being given a name. ‘Did you see him?’

  ‘No, I was told to keep out the way. He didn’t want any English involved.’

  ‘Were the others all French?’ I said, thinking of the man found with the Saxborough ring round his neck.

  A wary look crept into his eyes. ‘Yes, but I only met them once and I don’t know their names.’

  ‘The Englishman - did-----
-’

  ‘I didn’t see him. I just heard him talking to the Frenchies. Gabbling away like a Frenchman he was. Mind, he was English all right, the others said, and a gentleman by his clothes.’ I asked where and when this meeting had taken place. ‘In France,’ he said. ‘On the fifteenth of September.’

  ‘You’re very precise.’

  ‘That was the day he fixed. And I never forget when I’m being paid. All I know is he was ranting on about some ring he said we’d stolen, and how he should have known better than to trust a bunch of Frenchies. I didn’t know anything about this ring, and I’d done my job properly, but I still only got half of what I’d been promised.’ And he spat on the floor.

  So that was why this man was willing to speak to us. But far from certain he was speaking the truth, I tried to catch him out. ‘What was the name of the yacht?’

  ‘The “Augusta.”’

  ‘How do you know that? Can you read?’

  ‘No, but I heard the others talking about it. It was a lovely boat. If I’d known I wasn’t going to get what I was promised, I’d have kept it and sold it.’ He looked round at us all. ‘I’ve told you everything I know. Now I want my money.’

  ‘Willingly,’ I said. ‘If you give us the name of the Englishman.’

  He gave a shrug. ‘He was a gentleman, that’s all I know.’

  My uncle said, ‘We were told you had proof of what you knew.’

  Without a word he took something from his pocket and put it on the table. ‘This was in the cabin.’

  It was a penknife. My uncle looked at me in puzzled fashion, for it meant nothing to him, never having seen it before, but I would have recognised those distinctive markings anywhere. My hand shook as I picked it up, for it was the penknife I had given Tom on his fourteenth birthday.

  CHAPTER TWENTYEIGHT

  I stared at the penknife, unable to speak, and glancing across at Mudd, saw the colour drain from his face, for he remembered it from my father’s study. My uncle said later that one look at me had told him who it had belonged to.

  The man went on, ‘In the cabin there was a tiny painting of a lady, but one of the others took that.’ Having been on Thomas’s yacht a few times I’d seen the pretty miniature of his wife.

  In the end, we gave him the money. Preferring to hand it over rather than risk being attacked in the alley, as I was certain we would be, otherwise. We left the inn then, glad to be out, even into the stale air of the alley. None of us spoke until we reached the relative safety of Middle Street, when I told my uncle not to worry about the money. The most important thing was we had met someone willing to talk about the murders, and I believed we had learnt at least some of the truth.

  With the wind behind us the return crossing to Portsmouth was swift, and we made our way back to the inn in silence, lost in our own thoughts. My uncle, having seen me safely to my bedchamber, said that if I didn’t mind, he would go straight to bed, as he was feeling very tired. ‘We can talk about it all in the morning, my dear.’

  Once he had gone I changed into my own clothes, packed father’s old things in one of the bags, hiding them under my dirtied walking dress. Then I rang for some hot water, and also ordered supper. I wasn’t surprised at my uncle’s tiredness, as I felt decidedly weary myself. The strain had been much greater than I’d expected, and far more frightening too. Only now did I allow myself to think of the risk we had taken by going to such a foul and unsavoury place, for I had never so much as walked past such a low inn before. I shuddered at the thought of what could have happened if that man had seen through my disguise, or if we had been attacked and robbed. I had been very foolish, I saw that. Yet, I’d had to go; it was the only thing to be done.

  When the water came, I had a thorough wash, including my hair, desperate to be rid of the disgusting stink from that tavern. I changed into my night attire, put on my dressing gown, and had just finished dragging a comb through my long hair, wishing my maid was here to make it more presentable, when a maidservant arrived with some cold meat, bread and butter, and hot chocolate. I felt better when I’d eaten, and after the dishes had been removed, a servant came in with a warming pan to take the chill off the sheets.

  Climbing into bed, I was glad of that warmth, as I went over everything the Gosport man had told us. I believed what he’d said about Thomas and young Tom being taken out to sea by the French smugglers. And that he had sunk the yacht. For it explained the lack of wreckage, and how the bodies came to be found at Hokewell.

  Once again, I was struck by the care with which the whole thing had been planned. I thought about that for a long time. I thought about why the Gosport man had been willing to speak; his insistence that he didn’t know the Englishman’s name, only the date he’d been paid, and that he’d produced Tom’s penknife. He had told his story convincingly, without faltering and I had not been able to catch him out. Had he really done it for revenge? Was it true that he’d received only half the money promised, despite doing what was asked of him? Had he truly had no hand in stealing the Saxborough ring? Was it just the French smugglers? I didn’t know, and I was still turning it all over in my mind long after the sounds in the street had finally died away.

  I reflected too on how extraordinarily smoothly everything had gone. The Gosport man had not asked who we were, the men running up the alley had been stopped from attacking us, and no-one had bothered us in the inn. Things that made me very uneasy. As with so much else in this business, I had the distinct feeling everything had not been quite what it seemed.

  My uncle, however, had no such doubts. ‘In my opinion Drusilla, the man’s a scoundrel,’ he said over breakfast. ‘Smugglers can be very devious when there’s easy money to be had.’ I bit into my toast and nodded in acceptance. ‘At least you know what happened to the yacht now.’

  ‘True.’ And I reminded him, ‘He did say French smugglers committed the murders.’

  ‘Yes, but we already knew that.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘The truth is Drusilla, we learnt very little, and you are the poorer by five hundred pounds.’

  I sighed, agreeing it certainly looked that way, but it had been a chance and as such, had to be investigated. Pouring us both another cup of coffee, I went over the evening again at great length, for he would have thought it odd if I hadn’t. Eventually he said he could see how very cast down I was, but it would be best to put the whole episode behind us. I did not argue, nor did I speak of my own doubts, not wanting to worry him unnecessarily. Instead I reminded him we must collect his riding boots before we left for home.

  When we set off for the shop shortly afterwards I took the opportunity to tell him what Mudd had said about Mr Reevers returning to the Island. ‘Giles wasn’t with him, Uncle,’ I said, unable to keep the anxiety out of my voice.

  He looked at me. ‘You’re afraid he’s still in France?’ I nodded dumbly, and he said, ‘Try not to worry, Drusilla. In my opinion, Giles is very well able to look after himself.’

  Crossing the Solent that afternoon, the gulls shrieking around the boat, I thought how very little of our trip we could repeat to my aunt and cousin; but thankfully they would only expect to hear of the shops, our walks, and the prettiness of the harbour.

  It was well after dark when we reached Cowes, the late dinner provided at the inn being a welcome sight. My uncle retired soon afterwards, and I was so tried, I did not stay up for long. Even so, I still couldn’t sleep; but it was anxiety over Giles, rather than the noises in the street, that kept me awake.

  Things always seemed worse at night, yet I felt no better in the morning and rode home fearful of what I would learn when I arrived. My uncle insisted I was worrying unnecessarily, and so it proved. Walking into the drawing room I saw Lucie’s eyes shining with happiness, and knew Giles was back, which filled me with the most enormous sense of relief.

  ‘Giles arrived home late yesterday,’ Lucie said on greeting me, eager to relive that moment of joy. ‘And came over to see me this morning.’

  I said
everything that was appropriate, and my uncle gave Lucie a hug. ‘Just two more weeks, and I will have lost my daughter.’

  She laughed gaily. ‘Don’t be silly, Papa. You will never lose me, and Giles will be like a son to you.’

  To which he exclaimed in teasing fashion, ‘Now, why didn’t I think of that?’

  My aunt, who had been upstairs, came bustling into the room, and having greeted her, I left them to a family reunion. Badly needing a moment or two to myself, I crossed the hall to the workroom. Sinking into the one comfortable chair I kept in that room, I sat back, closed my eyes and allowed that blessed feeling of relief to seep right through my body. Giles was alive and back on the Island. Tears threatened, and I told myself not to be so silly, but the truth was I had been terrified he might never come home.

  It was some ten minutes before I felt fully in control of myself again. On going into the hall, I saw Jeffel and asked if all was well at Westfleet.

  ‘Yes, my lady, everything is much as usual. Cook’s rheumatism is starting to play up a bit with the colder weather. Oh, there was one thing – Jess caught a pigeon-----’

  ‘A pigeon?’ I exclaimed, astonished.

  He nodded. ‘She sneaked it into the kitchen just as cook was preparing dinner. The bird was still alive, and when Jess let go of it, the poor thing panicked, flying into everything in sight. You should have seen it, my lady. There were feathers everywhere. Some even went into the soup - I’m afraid cook was in quite a state.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ I said, laughing. ‘Dinner was late, I imagine?’

  He gave a chuckle. ‘By more than half an hour, my lady. Cook had to make fresh soup.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I sighed. ‘Mrs Frere will be demanding Jess’s head on a plate soon if she keeps on like this.’