By the Knife Page 2

Mrs. Corns waddled across the yard and entered the kitchen door. She had worked as cook and housekeeper for the Magistrate Hamilton for eight years.

  Her husband, Mr. Corns, also worked for the magistrate as coachman and handyman.

  She stood and made irritated noises at the state of her kitchen table. Empty pie dish left out and crumbs spread about; the master must have brought an urchin home again. By the time she had cleaned up and prepared a tray, the maid had arrived.

  ‘You’re late, girl,’ she said. ‘Be quick and take up the master’s breakfast.’

  The girl hung up her coat and picking up the tray set off up the stairs.

  The cook had just begun to set the kitchen range when there was a scream and the sound of breaking china.

  ‘What have you done now, girl?’ she called, starting for the stairs.

  Captain Darcy stood and looked round the room. He had seen many a battlefield against the French and Spanish and plenty of bodies cut to pieces, but this was somehow worse. The rich bedroom, a place of peace and quiet, contrasted dramatically with the blood-soaked body.

  The body itself, that of an old man naked and somehow so vulnerable, and the viciousness of the attack, the work of a madman.

  He stooped and examined two heaps of clothing, one just rags and covered in blood, the other well made and expensive. Turning, Darcy walked out of the bedroom door, closing it behind him.

  ‘No one to enter. I’ll send for the body,’ he instructed the guardsman who stood on the landing.

  Entering the kitchen, he approached the table around which the household staff sat. The maid, who had found the body, was still weeping. The fat cook, very red in the face, was at the head of the table; Corns the coachman sat staring at the floor, a sullen look on his face.

  ‘Did you hear nothing?’ Darcy asked

  It was the cook who answered. ‘No, sir,’ she said. ‘We live above the stable. The girl lives out. The master didn’t want anybody living in.’

  Darcy looked at the coachman. ‘This boy you say you brought back–’

  The cook interrupted. ‘The master was such a good man,’ she wailed. ‘Always bringing ragamuffin’s home to give them a meal.’

  Darcy ignored her. ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘It were dark,’ Corns replied.

  ‘It was a clear night; you must have seen something. Was he tall, short, fat, thin?’

  Corns looked up and then standing, held his hand up to the height of his ear. ‘This tall,’ he said. ‘They are all thin.’

  ‘What about his hair, long, short, light, dark?’

  ‘Dark, very dark.’ Corns touched his shoulder. ‘This long.’

  ‘When you pick up these…’ He looked at the cook. ‘… ragamuffins, do you always find them in the same place?’

  ‘Down near the docks,’ Corns said without looking at him.

  ‘Very well.’ Darcy walked towards the kitchen door. ‘I’ll send for the body. Once he is gone, you will make a list of anything you find to be missing.’

  Hell’s teeth, he thought, a magistrate with a brother in parliament and a boy prostitute.

  Outside he took the reins of his horse from the guardsman holding them.

  ‘Watch the kitchen door,’ he said. ‘None to leave or enter except our men,’ and under his breath, ‘A few more questions for that damned landlord, I think.’

  The landlord of the General’s Arms cursed under his breath. ‘Here comes that damned army officer again and this time with half the cursed army.’

  Darcy strode into the bar. ‘I have men outside the door,’ he announced. ‘Nobody leaves until I have some answers.’ He turned to the bar at large. ‘Who was in this bar the night before last?’ he demanded. Nobody spoke. ‘Come on, I know some of you were.’ Still he got no response. After waiting for a moment he tried a new tack. ‘I’m looking for a street boy this tall.’ He held out his hand to show the height. ‘With black hair down to his shoulders and new clothes.’

  The landlord laughed. ‘A street boy with new clothes,’ he said. ‘Now that would be a sight.’

  Darcy turned on him with a snarl. ‘I’ll close this pigsty and keep it closed if I get no information.’

  The smile slid from the landlord’s face and after a moment’s thought, he said, ‘Ask Lilly Carter,’ pointing to a table in one corner of the bar where three women sat.

  Darcy walked across to them. ‘Which of you is Lilly Carter?’ he demanded. One of the women put her hand to her mouth, a look of fear in her eyes. Her face had the red eyes and bloated look of a drunkard. ‘Do you know of a boy such as I describe?’ He thought for a moment. ‘Or do you have a son on the street?’

  ‘I’ve not seen him,’ she blurted.

  ‘Where do you live? Take me there.’ Darcy took hold of the woman’s shoulder and dragged her to her feet. ‘What’s his name?’ he hissed.

  ‘John,’ she cried.

  Outside the tavern Darcy called to his men. ‘Spread out, search the alleyways and question any you meet. You are looking for a tall young boy with black hair to his shoulders. His name’s John Carter. A gold piece for the man who brings him to me.’

  As dusk fell the guard’s officer mounted his horse; his men had found nothing. They had torn the Carter woman’s hovel apart and searched all the surrounding lanes and alleys.

  She was waiting at the tower; he would question her further.

  Darcy called to his sergeant. ‘I want men posted all round the area. You will search again at first light. The boy will be here; he has no other place to go.’ So saying he set off up the lane.

  As before, John waited until the night was well advanced before leaving his hiding place. Low water would not be until the early hours. He made a meal of bread and cheese and then said goodbye to the horses.

  Slipping through the streets, he avoided Cromwell Lane, arriving downriver of Dutchman’s Wharf.

  Climbing down to the river bed, John walked the low water mark upriver, arriving back at the wharf. The four ships that lay there were all high and dry, the river bottom being gravel with a thin coating of mud.

  He slowly and silently worked his way to the bow of the second ship in line: a Dutch fluyt that had finished offloading flax the day before.

  By reaching up John could almost reach the bowsprit rigging. He stepped back a few paces and then, taking a run, jumped and grabbed hold of the bobstay. From there he climbed up and using the bowsprit shrouds came level with the rail.

  John lay outside the rail with his eyes just above the capping. From here he could see the length of the wharf to the tavern on the corner. As he watched, a guardsman moved in the entrance to an alley. As the man stretched his back, turning his face away, John slipped over the rail onto the deck. He quickly moved to the shore side rail. Now to see him the guardsman would have to stand on the wharf’s edge and look straight down.

  John moved quickly aft and hid under the poop ladder outside the cabin door. He settled down to wait once again.

  As the night wore on, the noise from the tavern subsided. Soon afterwards, John heard the crew of the fluyt walking down the wharf.

  They swung into the rigging and dropped to the deck. All but one went down the forward hatch; the last, the captain, walked aft to the cabin. As the man approached, John opened the front of his shirt and with his most winning smile stepped out to meet him.

  ‘Hello, Captain,’ he said. The man stopped short.

  ‘John, where were you? I waited two nights. Come inside. What is happening? Everybody is looking for you.’

  John slid through the cabin door. ‘I was in the city, Captain,’ the boy told him. He moved closer to the big Dutchman. ‘I missed you.’

  It took a long time for the captain to go to sleep and then John was afraid to move for some time. At last, however, he was able to slide out of the cot. With great care to be silent he pulled on his clothes. Then kneeling on the cabin sole, he carefully moved the sea chests, stowed beneath the cot, away from the ship’s s
ide, making just enough space for him to hide in. Once concealed, he allowed himself to sleep.

  Captain Darcy stood in the middle of Dutchman’s Wharf and stroked his horse. It was midday and he had been organizing the search since first light. The night watch had seen nothing.

  The tide was high and a barge was coming alongside the wharf. He wondered in a half-interested way which ship had left to make room for it.

  Looking east he saw a Dutch fluyt slowly moving downriver.

  A fine carriage, drawn by two matching greys, rattled its way down Cromwell Lane towards him. He moved to let it pass, but it stopped beside him. An expensively dressed dandy leaned out of a window.

  ‘Captain Darcy?’ he inquired.

  ‘At your service, sir,’ said Darcy.

  ‘A word, if you please.’

  A coachman dropped down to hold his horse and the captain climbed into the carriage.

  ‘Captain Darcy, I am Michael Howard from Lord Hamilton’s chambers,’ the man began. ‘I am instructed to inform you that a grave mistake has been made. The idea that some street boy was involved in the death of Lord Hamilton’s brother is totally unacceptable.

  ‘I have spoken with your colonel and you are instructed to halt this investigation at once. The death was the result of a simple robbery and you will conduct your inquiries accordingly. I’m sure you have no business in this part of London. I wish you good day, sir.’

  Darcy climbed down and was handed back his horse. He watched the coach disappear up the lane and turned to his sergeant. ‘Get the men back to barracks,’ he said. ‘We are finished here.’

  The Delft worked her way clear of the sands and set her course for Rotterdam. Captain Van Hesston handed the ship over to his mate and walked aft to his cabin. The passage downriver had been good, the wind firm from the northwest. They had carried the tide for the first five hours.

  Once the tide had turned, however, progress had been slow and Van Hesston had been on deck for almost twelve hours. He ducked his head to pass through the cabin door and saw the boy sitting on his cot.

  ‘John,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you went ashore.’

  ‘I want to be with you, Captain. Teach me to be a seaman.’ John smiled up at him.

  Van Hesston sat down beside him. ‘John,’ he said. ‘I must decide what to do.’

  The boy put his hand on the man’s knee. ‘Why, Captain? Everything is perfect.’

  CHAPTER 2

  Frederick Fletcher closed the school house door and set out for home. The evening was beautiful, the lane a mass of autumn colours in the waning sunlight.

  Frederick had been schoolmaster at Upper Ashton for over fourteen years. The single-roomed school house barely had seating for his twelve students and was administered by the church. The financing came from the surrounding land owners who sent their sons from as far away as Great Waltham. The remuneration Frederick received was mean in the extreme, as the threadbare coat he wore showed, but there was a small tied cottage and best of all he could educate his son.

  David was all the pride of his heart; not only was he the best-looking boy in the village with golden blond hair but more importantly he was the best student. At twelve years of age, his reading, writing and mathematics were excellent.

  As Frederick walked down the lane, a coach horn sounded in the distance, but he didn’t hear it; his head was full of plans for David’s education. The problem, as always, was money. He wanted to send the boy to study as a lawyer, but it seemed impossible. He walked out onto the Colchester Road under the lead horse of the London coach as it rounded the bend.

  By the time the coachman had reined in his team, Frederick had passed under both near-side wheels and was dead.

  The vicar of St. Michael’s church looked at the woman and her young son as they stood beside the open grave. The woman, who was quite tall, had once been good-looking, but as with them all the life and endless work had made her hard and stern-looking. The boy was beautiful; he had hoped to bring him into the church choir, but it was not to be.

  ‘A sad day for us all, Mrs. Fletcher,’ he said. ‘Please let me assure you that you need not leave the cottage for at least a week. You have my condolences, madam.’

  The widow Fletcher frowned at him as he lifted his robe clear of the mud and walked away. ‘We don’t need these people, David,’ she said. ‘We’ll go to your Uncle Tom.’

  That afternoon Mrs. Fletcher presented herself at the vicarage door and demanded the small sum of money owed to her dead husband.

  The following day the Fletchers loaded their worldly goods onto the Colchester coach and set off for Mistley

  Thomas Thatcher was a man of substance; his father had left him a sailing barge in local trade and over the years he had purchased a second. He carried the local farm produce up to London and moved supplies for the navy.

  As a young man he was known to use his fists when his vocabulary proved inadequate; now in advancing years he tended to be gruff and largely silent in manner. Red in face and thin of hair, he still carried the weight to enforce his will, even if some of it had run to fat.

  The cottage Tom shared with his wife and three children, on the edge of Mistley village, had also been his father’s.

  This evening Tom was sitting in his chair to one side of the hearth, waiting for his supper, his pipe clamped between his teeth, when there was a knock at the door. Tom didn’t move and it was his wife who came through from the kitchen with flour up to her elbows to answer the knock.

  Throwing open the door, Mrs. Thatcher squealed with surprise. ‘Elizabeth,’ she cried. ‘Tom, it’s your sister Elizabeth. Come in, come in and dear little David. But where’s Frederick?’

  Mrs. Fletcher burst into tears. ‘Dead,’ she replied. ‘Dead and gone.’

  Supper was delayed as the story, accompanied by many tears, was told and retold. When at last Tom got to the table, he watched in silence as David ate two large portions of chicken stew, a piece of cheese, half a loaf and an apple. His mother stroked his hair.

  ‘David always had a good appetite,’ she said, smiling fondly.

  Tom chewed the stem of his pipe and struggled with the notion that his family had just increased by two.

  That night as David and his mother slept in the room next door, Tom’s wife explained her plans for the extended family. ‘David will go with you to the barge tomorrow,’ she said. ‘The sooner he learns the trade the better and Elizabeth will help me in the house.’

  ‘I’ve two sons and two barges,’ Tom complained. ‘What need of a third boy?’

  ‘Daniel will soon be old enough to take Ethel Ada,’ his wife argued, ‘and then David can go as lad, keep it in the family.’ Tom rolled over and said nothing.

  Before first light the next morning Tom and David set out for Harwich town quay; they travelled on a farm cart that took vegetables into town.

  The quay was a hive of activity. Men rolled barrels from wagons and stacked them on the dock edge, whilst others swung them into a barge’s hold alongside. Red-coated marines kept people away from this part of the quay.

  Tom walked to some stone steps that ran down to the water and boarded the barge.

  A lad of about thirteen years, tall with a broad smile and scruffy hair, said, ‘Morning, Tom. Who’s he?’ nodding at David.

  ‘Your cousin,’ Tom muttered, walking to the tiller.

  The lad looked at David. ‘Cousins, are we? What’s your name? I’m Joseph.’

  ‘I’m David,’ came the reply. ‘Frederick’s son. The school master.’

  ‘What you doing here?’

  ‘Dad’s dead.’

  Joseph quickly changed the subject. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you the barge.’

  He led the way forward, naming things as they passed: main horse, leeboard, main mast, fore horse and foresail; there was also something called a windlass, which was whelped. David was totally confused.

  They stood and looked back at the loading. ‘
That’s the sprit they’re using with a whip,’ Joseph explained. ‘You haul it in with the vangs.’

  David had been nervous before Joseph started helping him; now he began to be afraid of this new world. ‘What are they loading?’ David asked.

  ‘Gunpowder.’ Joseph grinned. ‘Don’t light a match. I should be ready,’ he continued. ‘Tom wants to get up to Mistley on tonight’s tide. He’ll want to be gone as soon as they finish loading.’

  Not long afterwards the men started fitting the hatch covers, a sheet was wedged into place and Tom waved his hand at the boys.

  ‘Come on, David,’ Joseph called. ‘Topsail.’ They ran to the base of the main mast and began cranking a small winch. ‘Topsail halyard,’ Joseph said. ‘Now the sheet; right now we harden the tack; good, now we can let fall the foresail.’

  The men on the quay let go of the lines as the barge moved away from the dock. The boys ran back to the starboard leeboard and lowered it all the way down. Looking aft David saw that Tom had lowered a small sail at the back of the barge.

  Joseph laughed. ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘Wind is down and the tide’s away. Now come on the mainsail.’

  The boys brought the main sheet back to the horse and then let go the brails.

  As the barge turned downriver, they hauled the mainsail along the deck, letting it fill as the barge ran downwind. Then for some reason that David did not understand they winched the leeboard up again.

  Joseph showed David how to tidy the shorelines and then both boys sat behind Tom as he stood at the tiller.

  Sitting watching the town drop away, David felt a sense of exhilaration; helping to get the barge away had been the most exciting thing he had ever done. He was amongst hard, ignorant men, but he felt almost hero worship towards them. He wanted to be part of this life.

  Tom put his pipe in his mouth and at a shout from the marines sitting around the main mast turned it upside down to show it wasn’t lit.

  ‘So, David,’ Joseph said. ‘What happened to your dad?’

  ‘He was run down by a coach.’ David didn’t look at him, afraid to show sentiment.

  ‘That’s bad luck. So are you staying with us now?’