The contraband killings, p.15
The Contraband Killings, page 15
“Why should I betray a comrade?”
“You might if it’s the difference between the gallows and transportation,” Dan said.
Kirby turned pale.
“Mr Brooks,” Dan continued, “would you send a message to Sir Edward’s coachman to bring up the carriage?”
There was no need. A brisk knock on the door heralded the arrival of the coachman, who had the carriage waiting for them outside. Dan and Evans escorted Kirby out of the office, pushed their way through the gaping crowd and put him inside.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“And it is your opinion that Commander Bevan died where you recovered his body?”
“It is,” Dan answered Coroner Hughes.
Every seat in the upstairs assembly room in Beaumaris Town Hall was taken, and there were people standing at the back. Goronwy Evans, Sir Edward, Stephen Lloyd Pryce, Captain Williams and the prison governor sat in the front row, Llewellyn and his men behind them.
Hughes had examined Evans that morning and pronounced him fit, apart from a few bruises and cuts. In his late fifties, the doctor was neat in his movements and succinct in his speech. It had been reassuring not to see Evans poked and prodded by a man whose hands shook and whose breath was practically flammable. Of the two officers, Dan looked as if he had come off the worse. His hands and face were battered, burned and bruised, and his movements stiff and painful. However, Mrs Jenkins had done an excellent job of cleaning and mending their clothes, and their appearance was otherwise respectable.
It had been a busy day for Stephen Lloyd Pryce, who had prayerfully laid Thomas Bevan in the family vault at St Catherine’s church to await the arrival of his family for the funeral. For the inquest, he had adopted a righteous and juridical air suitable to the occasion, and frequently signalled his approval of Hughes’s sterner remarks with a nod and hum. It reminded Dan of the Methodists he had seen at Hurst’s sermon in Beaufort Buildings on the Strand – a comparison he was cheerfully sure would displease the reverend.
Braillard stared at a point above Dan’s head while he listened to his testimony. He had been careful to point out that his responsibility for Jones ended the instant he relinquished custody of him. Having apportioned the blame satisfactorily, he avoided eye contact with the Bow Street men.
The captain, smart in his volunteer’s uniform, divided his attention between the proceedings and Sir Edward. Accompanying his cousin’s coffin on the short walk to the church had been strain enough for Sir Edward, and he had looked ill before the inquest started. He was pale and tense, his arms folded tightly across his chest. Dan focussed on his answers, not letting the magistrate’s nerves distract him.
“And what did you do after you had examined the body and collected the evidence that demonstrates that Watcyn Jones was present?”
“I caused the body to be carried to Henllys and I went to search Bevan’s rooms in the hopes of finding out who he had gone to meet. I was accompanied by Constable Evans and Captain Williams. We found a cache of smuggled goods, as told on the list I gave you, and a notebook with entries in his handwriting which suggest that he frequently altered the revenue patrol’s planned routes.”
A scandalised murmur broke out. Even Doctor Hughes’s composure was disturbed. His pen came to an abrupt halt. Dan had given evidence to the accompaniment of many similar outbursts at the Old Bailey and ignored it.
“He had written last Thursday’s date, but no other details. It suggests that there was a rendezvous planned, but whether it was with someone else and Jones happened upon him, or whether it was with Jones himself, is unknown.”
Hughes let the implications of this sink in. “You are suggesting that Commander Bevan was collaborating with smugglers? That he occasionally looked the other way in return for the modest reward of a few items of contraband?”
“The evidence points that way.”
“Yet you have no proof that contraband goods were landed on the nights he diverted the patrols, no proof of a direct connection between Watcyn Jones and Commander Bevan, and, indeed, no proof that Commander Bevan went out that night otherwise than in the normal course of his duties?”
“My investigations into those matters are not yet complete.”
“Of course. I would remind the jurymen that the purpose of this hearing is merely to establish cause of death, and of that I think there can be little doubt. Whatever the deceased’s purpose in going to the cove, there is clear evidence that Watcyn Jones was there too.” Hughes turned back to Dan. “That being so, Officer, is it your opinion that the murder was committed by Watcyn Jones, lately a prisoner in Beaumaris Gaol, on whom you had served a warrant for the murder of Revenue Officer Barker in Kent earlier this year?”
Dan hesitated. He was not sure it was his opinion yet, but it was difficult to suggest anything else.
“The evidence as it stands points that way, yes.”
“Thank you, Principal Officer Foster, that will be all.”
Dan picked up his hat and returned to his seat. Mr Llewellyn and the other riding officers had given their evidence and now there was nothing to do but wait for Hughes to consult with his clerk before directing the jury. He had already ruled on volunteer Hudson’s death: an unsurprising “Wilful Murder by Persons Unknown”, with Jones’s role as accomplice noted. The outcome of Bevan’s inquest was never in any doubt: “Wilful Murder by Watcyn Jones.”
“It is a great calamity,” Stephen Lloyd Pryce said, “that Jones is still at liberty. No decent man is safe while such a creature remains at large. Of course, no blame for these horrible murders can accrue to you, Principal Officer Foster. We are all of us merely human, all fallible, all frail flesh. You must not allow the fact that you let Jones give you the slip at Cadnant dismay you.”
Captain Williams spluttered into his wine. Sir Edward, who sat by the fire in the parlour where they had gathered after the inquest, toyed with his empty glass and did not seem to have heard his brother’s remark. Evans sucked in his breath and looked at Dan as if he expected him to tear off his jacket and challenge the reverend to a bout of fisticuffs.
Instead, Dan smiled. It was not a smile that made the constable look any less anxious.
“I thank you for your kind words, Reverend.”
“The Methodistical persuasion has much to answer for,” Pryce went on, happily bearing the burden of the conversation. “They have undermined true morality and the ordained order of things, and taught the labouring man to envy his betters and desire equality with his superiors. Their hedge preachers and Sunday school teachers have sown seeds of discontent which have led to lawlessness and riot – synonyms, sir, synonyms for reform and revolution. I would not be surprised if Jones and the man you arrested at the mine were connected. You have surely considered the possibility?”
“I have not,” Dan said, “but thank you for the hint.”
“It is fortunate that Doctor Hughes’s remarks have guided you away from the preposterous idea that cousin Bevan had any involvement with Jones and his smuggling gang.”
“As you say.”
Sir Edward shivered and lifted his gaze from the flames. “What Mr Foster is too polite to remind you is that Jones was not the only one who broke the law.”
Stephen Lloyd Pryce raised his eyebrows. “Come now, Edward, you surely do not put cousin Bevan’s regrettable lapses on an equality with three murders, especially when set against years of devotion to his dangerous work. He would, I am sure, have realised upon a little reflection that the course he had taken was unworthy of him and made amends.”
Sir Edward shook his head. “We must face the facts, Stephen. Tom was in a position of trust. He betrayed that trust. The only thing we do not yet know is how far his betrayal went. Perhaps it was, as you say, a few regrettable lapses, but Jones told us that there was someone in a position of authority behind the smuggling operations. If Tom was that man, it is Mr Foster’s duty to ascertain the truth. We must not interfere with him in the carrying out of his duties.”
“Interfere? Is it interfering to drop a few gentle hints?”
Williams stood up and moved over to the decanters. “If it should turn out that Bevan was innocent of so deep an involvement, Mr Foster will be the first to tell us, won’t you, Foster?”
For Sir Edward’s sake, Dan’s answer was sincere. “I hope as much as anyone here that such will be case.”
“However,” Williams removed the stopper from the decanter, “in spite of what Hughes said, the evidence against him does not make it seem very likely. May I help you to another drink, Reverend?”
Stephen held out his glass.
“How do you propose to advance your investigations?” asked Sir Edward.
“Evans and I will visit the bank in Caernarfon tomorrow,” Dan said.
Sir Edward nodded and did not pursue the subject. The door opened and Davies, the butler, came in with a letter for him. He broke the seal, glanced at the writing and handed it to Williams.
“You read it, Jack. I have a slight headache.”
“It’s from Mr Brooks at the mine. They have discovered the man who supplied Kirby with the gunpowder, which was stolen from the warehouse. It was easy enough to identify him as he did not turn up for work this morning. The Amlwch constable searched his lodgings and discovered a number of pamphlets advocating the overthrow of kings, annual Parliaments, and votes for working men.”
“Lord have mercy on us!” exclaimed Stephen.
“The man himself has not been found,” Williams continued. “The constable is arranging for descriptions to be sent to the local magistrates.”
“Well, Foster,” said Sir Edward, “whether Kirby’s accomplice is found or not, to have apprehended a French spy is no mean achievement. I congratulate you.”
“I did not do it on my own,” Dan said. “Constable Evans played his part.”
“Now that’s the mark of a good officer!” Williams cried. “One who gives credit where it is due, is it not, Evans?”
Evans was too surprised to answer. Superiors who do not take all the credit to themselves were a rarity.
“You look as if a bit of fresh air would do you good, Ned,” Williams said. “Why don’t we go outside?”
“Yes, I think I will. If you will excuse me, gentlemen.”
The two men left the room, the magistrate’s pace a shuffle beside his friend’s vigorous stride. The walk did him little good, though, and that evening he did not come down to dinner. On his way to bed later, Dan stopped to listen outside Sir Edward’s door. All was quiet. He hoped that Sir Edward’s night would be a peaceful one.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Dan’s eyes flickered open. A figure in white hung over him, eyes gleaming from a pale face surrounded by dishevelled hair. A spectral nimbus flickered about the apparition, deepening the darkness in the rest of the room. He thrust out his hand and his fingers closed around damp fabric as cold as a shroud. A cry of pain brought him to his senses. He released his grip and sat up.
“Lady Charlotte?”
“Mr Foster, I need your help.”
“Did I hurt your arm?”
“No. It doesn’t matter. It’s Edward. He’s not in the house and the door’s open.”
“Can you light me a candle? I’ll be down in a minute.”
When she had gone, her light tread making hardly a sound on the wooden stairs, he dressed hastily. It was a quarter past two by his watch. He could still hear the wind and rain that had accompanied his drift into sleep. The rain was heavier, the lashing of the trees louder. It explained her tangled hair and wet gown: she had been outside looking for her husband.
He pulled on his coat, wincing at his aching muscles. He looked at his pistol on the desk and, after a few seconds’ hesitation, decided to take it. He picked up the candle and grabbed the cover off the bed.
Lady Charlotte stood by the front door peering out at a curtain of rain. The air smelled wet and cold, tanged with salt. He put his light on the hall table and threw the blanket over her.
“Did you see which way he went?”
“I didn’t see or hear him. Something woke me, the storm I think, about an hour ago. I couldn’t get back to sleep until I’d looked in on him. His bed was empty and cold. I came down and went outside a little way, but there was no sign of him.”
“So you don’t know how long he’s been gone?”
“No, but he doesn’t usually go very far. Most of the time he just stands looking out to sea.” She fought back a sob. “Tonight I couldn’t see him.”
“Go and wait for me inside.”
She nodded, too consumed by worry to thank him. Not that he minded. It was a filthy night and a man in Sir Edward’s state of health should not be out in it. Dan pulled up his collar, twitched down his hat and went outside. She pulled the door shut behind him. He heard the latch click as he moved deeper into the night.
The wind gathered handfuls of rain and flung them against him. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dark. When they did, all he saw was the outline of swaying trees, crouching clumps of undergrowth, and ahead of him, the roiling grey Strait.
He had no idea which way Sir Edward had gone, so he took the route he had taken last time. He skidded on the wet grass, floundered in mud, slithered on leaves and twigs brought down by the wind. The muddy ditch at the foot of the hill had become a churning stream. He reached the shore, felt the sand give beneath his boots, the coldness of water welling over his feet, the slipperiness of stones and seaweed. He looked left and right along the strand. Nothing stirred, save the water.
He threw a look of dislike at the Strait, always there, always making its presence known, always visible. The moon had set, and the sky was full of troubled clouds. A good night for smugglers, he thought, but there were no boats on the water, or at least none he could see.
He decided to try a zig-zag sweep back up the incline. He inched his way, scouring the darkness, pausing every now and again to listen. Nothing except the wind and the rain, gusting, pattering, rustling, gurgling. He shook his head, spraying drops of water from the brim of his hat.
A noise, something like a long sigh. He stopped, one knee bent to steady himself on the sloping ground, straining his eyes and ears. The hair on the back of his neck bristled. Was someone close by? Instinctively he drew out his pistol.
Again he thought he heard a sigh, but it was hard to be sure with the wind gusting around him. He moved forward, halted after three steps, listened, took three more steps, halted, listened, scanned the trees. Gradually a shape began to form between the trunks, a shape that was not the bole of a tree. Not a standing man either, but a huddled form lying on the ground.
Dan ran the last few steps and dropped to his knees by the crumpled figure. It was Sir Edward, sleeping where he had fallen. His bare feet and legs, washed by the rain, gleamed pale in the darkness. He wore nothing but a nightshirt which was plastered to him. Dan put his pistol on the ground and pulled off his coat.
“Sir Edward! Wake up, sir, and put this on.”
He grasped the man’s shoulder and turned him over. Sir Edward’s head lolled against the grass and leaves. His face was white, his left eye socket a deep pit, his right eye staring into the writhing branches overhead. A deep gash ran across his neck and the rainwater ran red.
The house blazed with lights and activity. Lady Charlotte was in the parlour with Mrs Jenkins, still wrapped in the blanket Dan had given her. In the kitchen, the cook made tea and the maids served brandy to the soaked, silent men whose duty it had been to carry in the body. One of the grooms had ridden to Ty Coed to fetch Captain Williams, and Reverend Lloyd Pryce had already been summoned. The rest of the servants sat around the table in horrified silence, and for once the cook did not shoo them out of her way. The scullery maid, Mary, had been sent to warm water in the copper for washing the master when “they” had finished with him.
“They” – Dan, Evans and Doctor Hughes – had opened one of the rooms at the front of the house and laid the body on a clean sheet on a workman’s trestle table, with another sheet folded at Sir Edward’s feet. Dan had closed Sir Edward’s eye and now he lay like all the dead, no matter how violent their end, as if in sleep, his mouth set in the faint smile caused by the tightening of his skin.
“He’s seen his Maker,” one of the men had said of that smile as they laid the body down and the servants had backed out of the room, hats in hand, eyes brimming.
Hughes cut away the sodden nightshirt, revealing the full extent of the injuries Sir Edward had received on board the Ardent at Camperdown. His left side and arm were scarred by fire.
“Lady Charlotte woke at around one,” Dan said, “found his bed empty, went to look for him, and woke me about an hour later. It was three o’clock by the time I found him, so he’d already been lying out there for at least two hours. He was certainly cold to the touch.”
Hughes nodded. “Given the weather and the fact that he was only wearing a nightshirt, it would be hard to tell how long he had been there just from how cold the body felt. The jaw is already beginning to stiffen, though. I’d say he’s been dead a few hours.”
“Long enough for the murderer to be long gone,” Dan said.
He most likely did not see his murderer, he thought. The wound had been dealt from behind, just like Bevan’s. There were no other injuries and no sign of a struggle, again just like Bevan. He met Evans’s eyes above the table.
“Watcyn Jones,” the constable said.
“It looks that way,” Dan agreed.
Footsteps ran along the corridor and the door opened without the ceremony of a knock. Stephen Lloyd Pryce swept in. He hesitated, his affronted eye taking in the doctor, the Bow Street men, and the naked figure on the table.
“Have you no respect, Hughes? Leaving my brother uncovered, exposed to the common gaze, an object to satisfy the idle curiosity of strangers?”
Dan turned his common gaze on the outraged clergyman. “I think you know full well who we are, Reverend, and that it is our job to find the man who murdered your brother.”
