Michael Jecks - The Death Ship of Dartmouth

‘So you’re saying that I attacked the ship, put my men aboard, then pretended to fire her, slaughtered her crew and brought her back?’

‘Yes. A salvage arrangement is better than nothing, and it runs less risk of a noose. You appear the hero of the hour by bringing the ship back, and win a pleasant salvage.’

‘Except I had already agreed to waive my salvage.’

‘What?’

‘If you ask Pyckard’s man of business, you’ll learn that I agreed some while ago not to take my share. It seemed ungenerous when Pyckard was dying. I had no desire to hasten his death.’

Simon frowned. ‘You have this in writing?’

‘Pyckard’s man will have it. I gave him a formal note rejecting my salvage. So no, Bailiff, I had nothing to do with it. I found the ship burning and brought her back. That is all.’

‘I will check this.’

‘Do so. But what made you wonder such a thing?’

Simon shot a look over at Baldwin. ‘The ship was not entirely destroyed, and one crew member was dead. Any sailor would know how to destroy a ship, and if he fired it, she would be sunk. So I thought that you must have taken her and then brought her back to port for the salvage.’

Hawley scoffed. ‘Just for the money? You think I’d ruin a dying man for profit when I could make more by reaching port before him?’

‘I think you are a very capable sailor and master,’ Simon said seriously. ‘Where is your servant Strete now?’

‘I had him deposited at the gaming hall in the Porpoise. He had been taking my money and using it to pay for his gambling.’

‘What, taking the money from your chest?’ Sir Richard said. ‘Didn’t you notice?’

‘I trusted him,’ Hawley said shortly, adding, ‘and he replaced it sometimes.’

Simon leaped on that. ‘Did he replace money just recently? About the time of this sailing, before Pyckard’s ship sailed?’

‘Yes,’ Hawley said steadily.

‘You know what he did, don’t you?’ Simon pressed him.

‘He sold information about people. What he heard in the tavern and gaming rooms, he would sell to whoever wanted it,’ Hawley admitted. ‘It must have been lucrative.’

‘Did he sell something to Pyckard in the weeks before the sailing?’

Hawley was still a moment, but then he gave a short nod. ‘Yes. I think so.’

‘That’s why you chose to forfeit your salvage, wasn’t it?’

Hawley didn’t reply to that. ‘If you want to learn more, you’ll need to speak to Strete. He may still be able to talk — but the men in there grow mighty impatient when they think someone may be unable to repay their debts.’

Strete had never known such pain. His skull ached from the buffets it had taken, but that was nothing compared with his cods. He had been kicked so hard, it felt as though they had swollen like pigs’ bladders, and all the while his arms were strained behind his back so that he must stand on tiptoes to relieve the agony so far as he could. Naked, he shivered with the cold in this dark chamber. He knew he was still at the tavern, but in a small storage room out behind the gaming hall.

He heard steps approaching, and whimpered to himself. They stopped at the door, and it opened, letting some light into the dim interior. He had to avert his face from the sudden flare of candle-light, but not before he had heard a muttered, ‘Sweet Christ in heaven!’ and a gasp of horror.

There was a ringing of steel, and he panicked, crying out, ‘No more! No more, I beg!’

He felt his wrists being jerked, and he wept. Then the terrible strain on his arms ceased. Without the rope to support him, he collapsed, falling to his knees. There was a sudden shouting, and he heard a clash of weapons, but he was all but incapable of comprehending. His entire concentration was fixed on his shoulders and wrists. The sudden release had led to an anguish so entirely overwhelming that he was left shivering and weeping, unable to speak or even cry out.

‘You’re safe enough for now, Strete. Come with us,’ he heard, but he couldn’t respond. He was lifted gently to his feet. Another jerk at his wrists, and the ropes binding them fell away. There was a hand under each armpit, and he was helped to shamble and shuffle his way from the room. A cloak or blanket was pulled over him and wrapped about him, and he shuddered at the touch of another’s hands. All night the only contact he had received had been from fists. ‘Thank you … thank you …’ he said, over and over again.

Back at Simon’s house, they installed poor Strete in the rear parlour by the fire, and Rob, probably for the first time silenced by the sight of a figure in real distress, walked quietly to fetch water, wine and spices to make him a warming posset. Simon saw him staring in horror at the wretch huddled, shivering, on the bench.

Strete had been severely beaten. His hand looked as though it had been crushed or struck with a hammer. Certainly there was blood all over the swollen, ruined fingers. His face was unrecognisable, with his nose broken, lips mashed against teeth, an ear swollen and bleeding, and both eyes puffed and purple. They had almost completely closed, and as the men in the room talked, Strete turned his good ear to them like a permanently deaf man.

The Coroner had witnessed enough judicial beatings to be able to study Strete with a purely professional interest, but Baldwin had none of his objectivity. When he walked into the gaming hall, Baldwin had politely asked to see the clerk, and only when he had gripped a man by the throat and asked again, this time with his dagger drawn, did he begin to display his anger. When he saw the body hanging with its arms bound behind his back, his mood became black, and Simon feared that he might kill the clerk, with his bare hands. However, Baldwin merely slapped him twice about the face and thrust him away, muttering an oath. He had gently taken the terrified, blinded victim and eased him down. The wrath had not left him, though. It remained with him even now. It was in his deep brown eyes as he watched Strete.

‘Strete,’ Baldwin said, ‘I think you know why we want to speak to you.’

‘I’ve done nothing.’

‘You have lied and stolen from your master,’ Sir Richard commented happily. He had found a chicken leg from somewhere, and was chewing on it. ‘That’s enough to have a good beating in any house.’

‘Not only that, I think,’ Simon said.

‘What do you mean?’ Sir Richard asked.

‘The missing purse from the man in the road? Someone took it, and although the churlish old devil Cynegils took what he thought he was owed, he left much behind. Someone else took that. Someone who passed by that way a little later — eh, Strete?’

Strete’s head hung disconsolately. ‘I didn’t think it would matter. He didn’t need it any more, and it was enough to save me a beating from my master, so I thought.’

‘So you took his purse and took the money?’

Strete’s silence was confirmation enough.

‘Very well. And you had information which you could sell for profit too. Who to?’ Simon pressed him.

‘Master Pyckard. It was about his wife.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘It was about the night she died. I heard that she wasn’t killed when the ship was wrecked. She was already dead.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Do you recall the sailor Hawley found dead in the ship — Danny? He was drunk with me one afternoon, and he told me. He had been on the Saint Rumon when she went down, and he told me that he’d seen Mistress Pyckard as the wave broke the ship. The water washed away the master’s cabin, and she was dead in there. Blood on her legs and clothes. He just thought it was the water did that to her, but later on he realised it wasn’t that. He’d been hearing her moaning.’