Michael Jecks - The Death Ship of Dartmouth

Alred opened his mouth, but then he frowned. ‘The thing is, the trestle at the other end of the hole was still there. It was only the trestles at the sides and at this end of the hole which were taken. Walking up from the tavern, I remember seeing the trestle near me, and walking round it, but I don’t know if the other trestles were here. It could be that someone had already taken them.’

‘And if you don’t recall that , the man could already have been there, dead?’

Law shook his head. ‘No chance.’

Baldwin’s eyes snapped to him. ‘You sound very certain of that. Why?’

‘I dunno. I just don’t think he could have been.’

‘Why, man?’

Law began to regret opening his mouth. Alred had told him to hold his tongue if anyone should come and speak to them about the dead man, but no, he had to speak up and get himself into trouble, didn’t he?

Alred tried to rescue him. ‘I think he means that we’d be bound to have noticed.’

‘Did you? Is that what you meant?’

‘Yes.’

‘But your master said you were all drunk. You drank lots in the tavern, and when you came back, you saw one trestle only.’

Bill set his spade down and leaned on it. He stared at Alred, then at Law, then looked up at Baldwin. ‘What he meant was, there wasn’t time for the lad to get back here after we saved him. I don’t see there’s anything for us to be ashamed about in that.’

Alred turned to him, held his hands up in the air, and let them drop in defeat. ‘Fine! You want to tell him all, you go ahead!’

‘It’s not our fault, Alred. No point getting upset about it,’ Bill said. ‘Sir, we don’t know who the man is who fell into our pit here, but we did see another earlier that evening in the drinking house up there.’

Baldwin listened carefully as Bill told of seeing the stranger at the inn, and of how, when he had gone out the back, as though to find himself a place in the bedchamber, he had been followed by a local man who looked to them nothing better than a footpad. The three pavers had immediately gone after the men, allowing the stranger to move off unmolested.

‘This is growing very serious,’ Baldwin said with a long face. ‘Now, are you completely sure that the man in your pit was not the stranger at the inn?’

‘We are that.’

‘For one thing,’ Alred smiled slyly, ‘he had a lovely purse. Red leather, it was, with a draw-string that had a golden tassel. And his clothes were better. Less travel stained.’

Hamo was at his workshop at the tip of Smiths’ Street, which was how the folk in the town described the northernmost part of Lower Street. The opposite end was commonly called South Town, because over the years as the town grew, it had expanded along the shoreline to the south, since no houses could be built on the steep sides of the hill above.

This was a good place to have his cooperage. From here he could see all along both reaches of the Dart, northwards and south towards the open sea. As soon as a ship returned, he would see it, and although it was not a great help in telling him how many casks he might be able to sell, nor how many to mend, he did at least have warning that his services would soon be required. It was also good that he resided amongst the shipwrights, because they tended to go to him first when they wanted something done.

Hamo yawned. The twin inquests had been tiring, and he was thirsty now after trying to catch up. He had spent the time since working on oak staves, using his spokeshave to trim them all to shape. Now he had one steel ring on the floor, and was carefully setting the staves inside it to gauge their fit. He had a need for one more to space them, and he manipulated the others, trying them for their fit next to each other before he had them positioned well, and only then was he satisfied. Slipping a rope with a loose running knot over the top of the staves to hold them in place, he drew it tight before picking up the last one.

He had a simple jig where he worked: a sawhorse with a pair of pegs at one end. Thrusting the stave’s end between these pegs, he sat on the top of the jig then began to work with his spokeshave, drawing the tool towards him and shaving off fine, curling slivers with a smooth action, starting with short strokes near the end of the stave and gradually working further and further up the wood to create a gentle curve from the midpoint down. When he had completed both edges, he set the final stave in the barrel’s body and tied that in place too. The fit at the base was perfect. Only then did he reach for the other steel ring and start to set it at the top of the barrel, placing a blunted chisel at the ring and knocking it down with careful taps of his mallet.

It was while he was doing this that he heard a call. Glancing up, he saw a magnificent ship appearing at the mouth of the river. She was a great cog, powerful and elegant, and her sails rippled as the wind changed direction, coming down from the hill.

Hamo gazed at her for a moment or two, his eyes narrowed against the rippling sparks of sunshine on the water. This ship was clearly no ordinary merchantman. She had wealth on display everywhere, from the gold leaf on her prow to the immense silken flag at her mast, and she also had the trappings of war: there was a castle at bow and stern, and plenty of men about her.

Setting his tools aside, he stood watching as the ship travelled majestically up the river, her sails being reefed and anchors dropped as she came level with him. And as she drew to a halt, he saw the painted name: Gudyer , just as a little rowing boat was being launched over her side, and observed the laughing fair-haired man who made his way lightly down the rope and into the boat, where two crewmen rowed him ashore.

Hamund was feeling much better as the men began to talk again, ignoring him and Gil in their corner.

‘What now, master?’ he asked.

‘Some will come to drink our ale,’ Gil said bitterly, ‘and they’ll expect good money for the fact that no one else is coming forward. I’m glad I met you this morning. You haven’t brought me luck, but at least I have someone with us.’

‘What is all this about the men of Lyme?’

Hamund listened, his face growing longer as Gil told him all about the Saint John .

‘That’s it,’ Gil finished. ‘A crew missing, and the cargo all set to be fired. We were lucky John Hawley and his men arrived when they did.’

At that moment, three men came forward to offer their services, but none appealed to Gil. He tried to tempt others to join him on the ship, but all refused, shrugging their shoulders and not meeting his eye.

Gil gave up after the fourth refusal. ‘It’s no good. There’s no point trying to talk them around if they don’t want to do it. We’ll just have to make do with fewer men. We should be all right with the number we’ve got.’

Hamund, having no idea what was required in a ship’s complement, felt unable to comment beyond a mild expression of sympathy.

‘You can see why even an abjuror will be helpful,’ Gil said.

As Hamund nodded, hoping desperately that the master would not change his mind about hiring him, the door opened and two men walked in. Hamund barely glanced at them, but Gil immediately stiffened at his side. ‘What does the Bailiff want — and who’s that with him?’

Hamund was feeling quite light-headed, but he focused on the two men at the doorway with an effort, and watched as they marched over to the innkeeper.

It was Simon who beckoned the innkeeper to them. ‘Saul, this is the Keeper of the King’s Peace, Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, and we’re here to investigate the death of the man up the road the other day. We’ve heard that there was a man came in here, and he was followed out back by someone you knew. Tell us what happened.’