Alexander Kent - Stand into Danger

He came aft and touched his hat to Palliser.

“That new man Stockdale, sir. He’s solved a problem with a gun I’ve been bothered with for months. It was a replacement, y’see. I’ve not been happy about it.” He gave a rare smile. “Stockdale thinks we could get the carriage reset by…”

Palliser spread his hands. “You amaze me, Mr Vallance. But do what you must.” He glanced at Bolitho. “Your man may not say much, but he is certainly finding his place.”

Bolitho saw Stockdale looking up at him from the gun-deck. He nodded and saw the man smile, his battered face screwed up in the sunlight.

Jury, who was the midshipman of the watch, called, “Gig’s shoved off, sir!”

“That was quick!” Rhodes snatched a telescope. “If it’s the captain coming back already, I’d better…” He gasped and added quickly, “Sir, they’re bringing Lockyer with them!”

Palliser took a second glass and levelled it on the green-painted gig. Then he said quietly, “The clerk’s dead. Sergeant Barmouth is holding him.”

Bolitho took the telescope from Rhodes. For the moment he could see nothing unusual. The smart gig was pulling strongly towards the ship, the white oars rising and falling in perfect unison, the crew in their red checkered shirts and tarred hats a credit to their coxswain.

Then as the gig swung silently to avoid a drifting log, Bolitho saw the marine sergeant, Barmouth, holding the wispy-haired clerk so that he would not fall into the sternsheets.

There was a terrible wound across his throat, which in the sunlight was the same colour as the marine’s tunic.

Rhodes murmured, “And the surgeon’s ashore with most of his assistants. God, there’ll be hell to pay for this!”

Palliser snapped his fingers. “That man you brought aboard with the other new hands, the apothecary’s assistant? Where is he, Mr Bolitho?”

Rhodes said quickly, “I’ll fetch him, sir. He was doing some jobs in the sick-bay, just to test him out, the surgeon said.”

Palliser looked at Jury. “Tell the boatswain’s mate to rig another tackle.” He rubbed his chin. “This was no accident.”

The local boats parted to allow the gig to glide to the main chains.

There was something like a great sigh as the small, untidy boat was hauled up the side and swung carefully above the gangway. Some blood ran down on to the deck, and Bolitho saw the man who had joined his recruiting party hurrying with Rhodes to take charge of the corpse.

The apothecary’s assistant’s name was Spillane. A neat, self-contained man, not the sort who would leave security to seek adventure or even experience, Bolitho would have thought. But he seemed competent, and as he watched him telling the seamen what to do, Bolitho was glad he was aboard.

Sergeant Barmouth was saying, “Yessir, I’d just made sure that the clerk was safely through the crowd, an’ was about to take my stand on the jetty again, when I ’eard a cry, then everyone started yellin’ an’ carryin’ on, you know, sir, like they does in these parts.”

Palliser nodded abruptly. “Quite so, Sergeant. What then?”

“I found ’im in an alley, sir. ’Is throat was slit.”

He paled as he saw his own officer striding angrily across the quarterdeck. He would have to repeat everything for Colpoys’ sake. The marine lieutenant, like most of his corps, disliked interference by the sea officers, no matter how pressing the reason.

Palliser said distantly, “And his bag was missing.”

“Yessir.”

Palliser made up his mind. “Mr Bolitho, take the quarter-boat, a midshipman and six extra hands. I’ll give you an address where you will find the captain. Tell him what has happened. No dramatics, just the facts as you know them.”

Bolitho touched his hat, excited, even though he was still shocked by the suddenness of Lockyer’s brutal death. So Palliser did know more of what the captain was doing than he proclaimed. When he looked at the scrap of paper which Palliser thrust into his hand he knew it was not the governor’s residence, or any other official place for that matter.

“Take Mr Jury, and select six men yourself. I want them smartly turned out.”

Bolitho beckoned to Jury and heard Palliser say to Rhodes, “I might have sent you, but Mr Bolitho and Jury have newer uniforms and may bring less discredit on my ship!”

In next to no time they were being pulled across the water towards the shore. Bolitho had been at sea for a week, but it seemed longer, so great was the change in his surroundings.

Jury said, “Thank you for taking me, sir.”

Bolitho thought of Palliser’s parting shot. He could not resist a sarcastic jibe. And yet he had been the one to think of Spillane, the one to see what Stockdale was doing with the gun. A man of many faces, Bolitho thought.

He replied, “Don’t let the men wander about.”

He broke off as he saw Stockdale, half hidden by the boat’s oarsmen. Somehow he had found time to change into his checked shirt and white trousers and equip himself with a cutlass.

Stockdale pretended not to see his surprise.

Bolitho shook his head. “Forget what I said. I do not think you will have any trouble after all.”

What had the big man said? I’ll not leave you. Not now. Not never.

The boat’s coxswain watched narrowly and then thrust the tiller bar hard over.

“Toss yer oars!”

The boat came to a halt by some stone stairs and the bowman hooked on to a rusty chain.

Bolitho adjusted his sword-belt and looked up at the watching townspeople. They appeared very friendly. Yet a man had just been murdered a few yards away.

He said, “Fall in on the jetty.”

He climbed up the stairs and touched his hat to Colpoys’ pickets. The marines looked extremely cheerful, and despite their rigid attitudes in front of a ship’s officer, they smelled strongly of drink, and one of them had a flower protruding from his collar.

Bolitho took his bearings and strode towards the nearest street with as much confidence as he could muster. The sailors tramped behind him, exchanging winks and grins with women on balconies and in windows above the street.

Jury asked, “Who would want to kill poor Lockyer, sir?”

“Who indeed?”

Bolitho hesitated and then turned down a narrow alley where the roofs nodded towards each other as if to blot out the sky. There was a heady scent of flowers, and he heard someone playing a stringed instrument in one of the houses.

Bolitho checked his piece of paper and looked at an iron gate which opened on to a courtyard with a fountain in its centre. They had arrived.

He saw Jury staring round at the strangeness of everything, and remembered himself in similar circumstances.

He said quietly, “You come with me.” He raised his voice, “Stockdale, take charge out here. Nobody is to leave until I give the word, understood?”

Stockdale nodded grimly. He would probably batter any would-be troublemaker senseless.

A servant led them to a cool room above the courtyard where Dumaresq was drinking wine with an elderly man who had a pointed white beard and skin like finely tooled leather.

Dumaresq did not stand. “Yes, Mr Bolitho?” If he was startled by their unheralded arrival he hid it very well. “Trouble?”

Bolitho glanced at the old man but Dumaresq said curtly, “You are with friends here.”

Bolitho explained what had happened from the moment the clerk had left the ship with his bag.

Dumaresq said, “Sergeant Barmouth is nobody’s fool. If the bag had been there he would have found it.”

He turned and said something to the courtly gentleman with the beard, and the latter showed a brief flash of alarm before regaining his original composure.