Michael Jecks - The Death Ship of Dartmouth

‘Of course not,’ Hawley responded. His bottler had entered, and Hawley gestured to the guests first before taking a goblet himself. He continued, ‘If you had to investigate everybody washed up on the beach, you’d have a hard time of it, not knowing which ship he fell from, when, where, or why. Often you can’t even tell who these poor lost souls are anyway, when half of their face has been eaten away by crabs!’

‘You have seen such corpses?’ Sir Richard asked.

‘Who has not? Every winter the wrecks are washed up and the bodies pile up, eh, Bailiff? You will have seen them too. They always repel my clerk here, but I tell him not to be so squeamish. If you live by the sea, you will see such sights.’

Coroner Richard shrugged. ‘For my part, I’m happy not to have any more deaths to investigate.’

‘What? Even if it’s shown that wandering pirates have attacked and killed an entire ship’s crew?’ Hawley snapped.

Baldwin eyed him narrowly. ‘You feel strongly about this, shipmaster?’

‘Of course I do! I depend for my life on the sea and on trade. If there are pirates, all are at risk. The men who killed the crew on Pyckard’s ship are as likely to attack one of mine next. And in any case, the life of a sailor is hard enough already without the additional threat of misbegotten whoresons who seek to rob us of our cargoes and kill us as well.’

‘But how would someone learn of a ship’s passage?’ Simon wondered. ‘By having a man on the hill up at Tunstal watching to see who was sailing? If so, how would they get the information relayed to their own ship at sea, to alert them to their prey?’

‘I don’t care how they do it,’ Hawley said dismissively. ‘All that matters is that they have done so in this matter. It is disgraceful if the King’s officers will refuse to aid sailors from Hardness and Clifton who need protection.’ He glared aggressively at the Coroner and Baldwin.

‘The men of the town are used to protecting themselves, from all I have heard,’ Baldwin murmured idly, studying the wine in his mazer.

‘We will fight and defend ourselves when we can,’ Hawley said firmly. ‘A man who robs me will learn I have a long arm and an infinite capacity for hatred.’

‘Of course,’ Baldwin said comfortingly. He saw Strete shoot his master a look, and the expression on his face fleetingly sparked his interest, but then Hawley was speaking again and Baldwin turned his attention back to the shipmaster.

‘The King benefits from our cogs and men whenever he has a war to fight and men to take over the water. Yet when we need aid, there is nothing in return. Is that just? If the rumours are true and this is another attack from the men of Lyme, we should be able to expect some support from the King.’

‘I could advise him that you and the men of Dartmouth are keen to have him take more interest in all your trade,’ Simon said sweetly. ‘He would be happy to do that, I’m sure.’

The threat worked. Hawley scowled and shook his head. Simon knew only too well that many transactions were never declared to him or Stephen, and the shipowners made much more money than was declared. It was the reason why shipmasters tended to be more wealthy than their trade should permit. The customs of the port were never quite so high as they should be.

‘Do you think the men of Lyme were involved?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Who else?’ Hawley said, but slightly too glibly, as though he had expected to be asked just that.

‘Of course, this case could be different. We could perhaps argue that we do have jurisdiction even over this dead sailor,’ Baldwin said softly.

‘How so?’ Hawley frowned.

‘If he can be shown to have died within sight of the shore, for instance,’ Baldwin murmured. ‘Or even on shore, before the sailing.’

‘That is likely enough, isn’t it?’

Baldwin’s eyes hardened. ‘Why?’

‘I agree with what you said at the inquest, Sir Baldwin. One wound like that: he was plainly not killed in an attack. If he had been, he’d have had wounds all over — stabs and slashes, and probably more than one blow from a cudgel to break his head. And there’s another thing, too. When he was dead, he’d not have been left behind on the ship. If pirates threw the rest overboard, they’d have done the same with him. Wouldn’t they?’

Baldwin watched as Hawley crossed the floor, stood at his sideboard, drained his goblet, and refilled it. He was a strangely precise man, Baldwin thought. His movements were definite. In all he did he looked a very exact man. He had an economy of movement, a fluidity, that Baldwin had only ever observed in warriors of the highest quality before. And his eyes were not dim-witted like so many fighters and sailors. They were intelligent and thoughtful as he turned to face the three again.

‘Would you care to explain that?’ the Coroner rumbled.

‘The ship was attacked, wasn’t it? And taken. The crew would have defended themselves, and many, if not all, fought hard. Some would have died. So where were they? Where were their limbs? All were gathered and thrown overboard, surely. As would this man have been, were he alive when the ship was taken.’

‘That would make sense,’ Sir Richard commented. His brows dropped as his eyes narrowed intimidatingly. ‘Do you know anything of this?’

‘No.’ Hawley waved his drink towards Baldwin. ‘In truth, I am not completely sure that this was something to do with Lyme. Why should they burn Pyckard’s vessel? The Saint John was worth good money, as was her cargo. If they’d taken her, they’d have thieved all they could. Instead, they tried to fire her and left her burning.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘Your conclusion?’

‘Obviously, they didn’t mean to destroy the cog. It wasn’t a seamanlike effort. If they’d really wanted her sunk, they’d have made a better job of it. And no pirate or privateer would have done that. So, if it wasn’t someone after a ship and her cargo: what else could they have wanted?’

‘Well?’ the Coroner rasped.

‘I think they attacked the ship to stop her arriving in port. And that was because there was a man they wanted on board. ’

And Baldwin felt those unsettlingly shrewd eyes on him again.

Cynegils was feeling terrible. His head seemed swollen, and his mouth hardly worked. There was a dryness when he tried to speak, and the wrong words would keep coming out. If only these bastards wouldn’t hurry so much. He needed a moment to pause and take his breath, but already they were hurrying him up the hill towards Higher Street. Even when he stumbled, the men didn’t seem to care. They continued hustling him along with his knees scraping the cobbles until he found his pace again and could march with them.

‘Where are you taking me?’ he gasped.

‘Shut it. You’ll learn soon enough.’

‘Oh come, now. What am I supposed to have done? Who wants me? I’ve told all I can to the Coroner and his friends. Can’t do more … tell more.’

If the sergeant wanted someone brought to him, he’d order the nearest watchmen to go and grab him, but these two weren’t watchmen. In fact, Cynegils didn’t think he’d seen either of them before. They were too well fed and well clothed to be locals, and they didn’t look like seamen, either. They had more the appearance of henchmen to a wealthy lord. Suddenly Cynegils felt sick. The nausea seemed to permeate his entire body.

The inn appeared, and to his astonishment, he was bustled through the narrow doorway and allowed to drop to the floor just over the threshold. When he remained on all fours, he was kicked roughly up the backside, and he fell forward onto his face, where he lay panting, trying to keep the vomit at bay.