Devil's Prize (14 page)

Jenefer didn’t hesitate. ‘Now, if that would suit you?’

‘Now? Proper job. See, ’tidn only the bills we got to pay, like what we owe for stuff we ’ave reg’lar from the farm: the milk, cheese, eggs, and veg; Percy ’aven’t been well enough to make up the monthly accounts for the customers.’

Having bottled up her worry for weeks, Hannah found relief in a torrent of words. ‘Whole bleddy village do know Perce is bad, begging your pardon, miss. But Mrs Blamey said she wouldn’t pay nothing till she’d checked the account. The rest is just the same. Send their maids in with a list, but don’t offer a farthing.’ Her tirade was cut short by the tinkle of the bell above the shop door.

‘It sounds as if you have a customer,’ Jenefer said quietly. ‘Would you like me to wait until you come back before I touch anything?’

Hannah threw up her hands. ‘No, if you’re going to do it, you just as well start. I wouldn’t know what I’m looking at anyhow.’ She bustled out, leaving the door half-open.

Jenefer glanced round at boxes, crates, and sacks stacked against the walls, at jars and packages piled on shelves, and wondered what she had let herself in for. The room was part store and part office. A small fire burned in the grate and a blackened kettle sat in the hearth. Crossing to the bureau, she sat down in the wooden armchair. As she turned the topmost ledger towards her she heard voices and realised more than one woman had entered the shop.

‘Well, I got no patience with her,’ snapped a sour voice Jenefer recognised. ‘All they airs and graces she do put on. Give us six of they tatties, Han, and a couple of turnips. That girl of ’ers is no better than a cheap whore.’

‘Dear life, Mary-Anne, hush your mouth. You got no call saying such things.’

‘Have too. She’ve only gone and got herself in trouble.’

‘Who says?’ Another voice was scornful, then softened. ‘Two bars of yellow soap, please, Hannah.’

‘Tess Mitchell. Her Ernie do work in Gillis’s yard and he told Tess he could hear missus yelling at Tamara.’

Jenefer gave up trying to concentrate on the figures. Tamara in trouble? Jenefer knew there was only one kind of trouble the women could mean.

‘Get on, Morwenna Gillis is always in uproar over something.’

‘Not like this. Ernie said she was screaming fit to bust her stays.’ Interspersed with the voices Jenefer heard the rustle of paper and purchases were wrapped, then the rattle of the till drawer and the clink of coins.

‘Whose is it? Do Tess know?’

‘Well, I heard she tried for Devlin Varcoe.’

‘Never. I seen ‘em both at the dance and they never went near each other. Give us a small slice of that there cheese, Han, and some boiling peas.’

‘That don’t mean nothing,’ Mary-Anne objected. ‘Mind you, doesn’t have to be his. Who’d turn it down when ’tis offered on a plate like she do? Men! Led by their cocks, the lot of ’em.’

‘Jealous, Mary-Anne?’

‘She should be. Now ’er Charlie’s gone, only hope she got is a blind man on a dark night.’

This earned a snort from Mary-Anne and a laugh from the rest. ‘Tamara Gillis’ll never hold him.’

‘He’ll get caught sometime.’

‘Not till he want to be.’

‘I wouldn’t mind an hour with’n.’

‘Sarah Collins, you hussy! What would your Jack say if he heard you?’

‘She’d have to wake’n up first.’

The bell jangled and the door closed, shutting off the women’s voices.

Turning again to the bureau, Jenefer began sorting the papers into several piles as Hannah moved about the shop. The doorbell jangled again as another customer entered, made her purchases and left, exchanging greetings with someone else on the threshold. Soon these sounds faded from Jenefer’s consciousness.

It was some time later when Hannah came back into the room, pausing with a gasp that made Jenefer look up.

‘Dear life! I’d clean forgot you was here. Getting on all right are you?’

‘Yes, but there’s quite a lot to do. Would you like me to write out the customers’ accounts as well as entering all the amounts in the ledger?’

‘Be a lot of work, will it?’ Hannah looked dubious.

‘It’s not difficult, it just takes time. If you’ve no objection to me taking the books home, I can work on into the evenings and get it finished more quickly.’

After a moment’s frowning thought, Hannah gave a shrug and a nod. ‘May as well.’ As Jenefer stood and began gathering all the books and papers, she added, ‘I got an old string bag here somewhere. Got paper and pen have you?’ When Jenefer shook her head, Hannah pulled open the bureau drawer. ‘Perce do keep it all in here. Take what you need.’

‘Thank you.’ Adding a metal-nibbed pen, a bottle of ink, and a dozen sheets of paper to the pile, Jenefer’s glance slid to the six-inch thick wad of used newspapers at the far end of the table. She missed having something to read, and had no idea what was happening in the world outside the village.

She indicated the newspapers. ‘Might I use one or two of those to wrap everything up? Then no one need be aware of our arrangement.’

Hannah glanced up, visibly pleased by Jenefer’s suggestion. ‘Yes, you take a couple. Old ones they are. I do have ‘em back from Dr Avers for the privy or kindling, and wrapping veg.’

Jenefer steeled herself. ‘I need some vegetables myself, and eggs.’

 Hannah brushed red work-worn hands over her apron. ‘You going to be all day on they books are you?’

Jenefer nodded. ‘I’ll make a stew for tonight. Then I’ll probably work on into the evening.’ A thought struck her. ‘Candles. Do you have any beeswax or spermaceti candles?’

Hannah’s mouth pursed. ‘Expensive they are.’

‘I know. But they give such a lovely white light. It’s impossible to read using tallow dips, and the smell is awful.’

‘Right, well, would you say some tatties, turnips and onions, two eggs, and three good candles would be fair pay for two days’ work?’

Jenefer had no idea whether the offer was a generous one. Hannah Tresidder might well be taking advantage of her, having guessed she was not used to haggling and would find it difficult. But for the moment relief vanquished doubt. Even so, she was careful not to allow either to colour her tone.

‘That sounds reasonable, Mrs Tresidder.’

The following morning Jenefer cleaned the ashes out of the range into an old bucket she would later take up the garden and tip down the privy. Picking up one of the creased, earth-smeared newspapers that had wrapped her vegetables, she glanced at the tiny print, resisting the urge to stop and read it more thoroughly. But just as she was about to crumple it and stuff it into the range a name leapt out at her.

Laying the paper on the floor she smoothed it as she read, her gaze flying over the words. The packet ship,
Lady Mary
, had been involved in a skirmish with a French privateer resulting in great damage to both vessels and considerable loss of life. Lady Mary was the packet ship on which Martin had sailed to America.

She checked the date at the top of the sheet. It was a month old. Clearly, after returning safely from America, the
Lady Mary
had made other voyages before the unfortunate events described in the newspaper.

Jenefer sat back on her heels. Why then, in all the time that Martin had been away, and despite all the letters she had written, had she heard nothing from him? Surely he could have sent letters back via the packet ships? Anyone would think he had forgotten her. That she could even consider such a thing was very lowering. Yet what else was she to think? It was as if he had vanished off the face of the earth.

She was tired of waiting for letters that never arrived, tired of being anxious and disappointed. As soon as she had finished the month’s accounts for Mrs Tresidder, she would make the journey to Martin’s father’s house in Falmouth. If her letters had been lost or misdirected, he might be unaware of all that had happened here. Surely someone at the house would be able to tell her more?

Chapter Fourteen

Despite the early hour, the Roscoff quayside bustled with activity and the babble of different languages. The lugger had made a fast passage, aided by a steady north-westerly breeze that had dropped away just before dawn. But by then the danger of being sighted by a British Customs cutter was negligible.

As the sun lifted out of the sea, and soft pastels hardened into the clear sharp outlines of a winter morning, once again the wind began to freshen. It whipped the gunmetal water of the harbour into choppy waves tipped with foam as ebbing tide and on-shore breeze fought each other.

A fleet of fishing boats were tied by their bows and bumped against each other as their crews unloaded the night’s catch. Moored alongside the north quay two large trading schooners already had their hatch covers off and winches squealed as cargoes were lifted out and swung across to the waiting wharfmen. Working in relays they heaved sacks onto wooden barrows and wheeled them across to stone sheds and warehouses.

His crew behind him, Devlin ducked his head as he entered his uncle’s inn at the back of the quay. A narrow passage opened into two large rooms with low-beamed ceilings and dark, scarred tables flanked by high-backed settles or narrow benches. In the far wall of each room was a huge hearth, the ashes cold, fires laid but not yet lit. Further down the passage a staircase led up to private dining rooms and bedrooms for well-to-do customers needing overnight accommodation. Devlin breathed in the smell of fresh bread, coffee, and fried pork, and his mouth watered.

‘Anybody home?’ he called.

‘Better be,’ Danny Pawle murmured behind him. ‘Bleddy starving I am. Me stomach think me throat been cut.’

A bear of a man emerged from a doorway behind the wooden counter that separated the casks of ale and spirits from the rest of the room. His thick grey hair was tied back with a strip of leather. He wore a blue checked shirt, the rolled-up sleeves exposing brawny forearms, a knotted kerchief around his throat, and tobacco-coloured breeches. But despite his working clothes he was freshly shaved.

Seeing Devlin a grin lightened his face. Lifting the hinged flap, he came out and clapped Devlin’s shoulder as they shook hands. ‘All right, boy? Good trip was it? ’Morning, lads.’ He nodded to the crew. ‘You’ll be wanting your breakfast.’ Without waiting for a response he turned and bellowed in French through the doorway, his grin widening as a woman’s voice called back.

‘Won’t be long. How about a drop of something while you wait?’

‘Proper job.’

‘Wouldn’t say no.’

Retreating behind the counter he soon had a row of tankards lined up on the bar. ‘This one’s on me, boys, and a drop of the finest to warm you up. You want more, you pay for it.’ He turned to Devlin. ‘Jared not with you?’

‘He’s laid up. Fever and a bad cough.’

‘Not like him to be ill.’

‘I miss him,’ Devlin said, ‘as we’re two men short. But we had a fair wind coming over.’

‘Good health to ’ee, Mr Varcoe,’ Sam raised his tankard and the others followed suit, adding their thanks. They all drank deeply.

‘Sit down, boys, sit down. Eve’ll be out d’rectly.’

As his crew turned and settled themselves at one of the large tables, Devlin remained by the bar. Taking the purse from inside his jacket he dropped it on the counter.

Hedley glanced from it to Devlin, his brows climbing. ‘Always welcome you are, boy. But I didn’t think to see you back for a while.’ He nodded at the purse. ‘Where did he get it?’

Devlin propped one elbow on the counter and raised his tankard. ‘He said he made a killing on our last cargo.’

Hedley frowned. ‘Now how on God’s green earth did he do that?’ Opening the purse, he poured the gold coins into his palm. After frowning at them he returned them to the leather purse, pulled the cords tight and tucked it inside his shirt.

‘You heard about Harry Carlyon running aground during a chase?’ Devlin knew that whatever happened around the Cornish coast, within the week his uncle would know about it. ‘Half his cargo was lost and the rest impounded when his cutter went down. That doubled the value of mine.’ Devlin shrugged.

Hedley nodded, but his expression remained sceptical. ‘I know he’s your brother, but I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could spit. You watch your back.’

Eve appeared in the doorway carrying two heaped plates, with two more resting on her forearms. A buxom woman of middle age, with rosy cheeks and fair hair escaping from her frilled cap, she smiled at Devlin as Hedley lifted the counter flap to let her through.

‘Bonjour, capitaine.’ Her voice was soft and throaty, her eyes warm. ‘Comment allez-vous?’

‘Bien, merci. Et vous, madame?’

‘Bien aussi.’ Her smile and nod made Devlin glad that he’d made the effort to learn a few words of French. He knew little of her background, only that she was not Breton, but from the Vendee, and had ended up in Roscoff after her entire family was massacred during government reprisals after the failed Royalist uprising in 1793.

For eighteen hours a day her kitchen produced generous servings of tasty food, winning a well-deserved reputation among merchant seamen of half-a-dozen nations as well as those engaged in running contraband to England. Thus the inn had become an important source of information about the war.

While the men huddled over their food at a table, Devlin pulled up a stool and ate his meal at the counter. ‘Is there any more news about our agent?’

Hedley added a shot of brandy to his coffee. ‘They’ve increased the reward for his capture.’

‘They’re worried then.’

‘So they should be. The Royalists won’t give up. The rising in October was a much bigger threat than the one back in April. People are sick of the republic and the war. They were promised freedom and equality, but what with the Terror and all the corruption, they’re no better off than before the Revolution. There’s no work, no money, and little food. The government’s shit-scared of a rebellion. That’s why Barras had the rioters gunned down.’ Hedley grimaced in disgust. ‘A bloody massacre it was. I reckon he’s made a big mistake giving so much power to that young general, Bonaparte. You mark my words, he’ll be trouble.’

Devlin forked up more food. ‘They still don’t know who the agent is?’

Hedley shrugged. ‘Some say he’s an army officer, others reckon he’s a merchant or a diplomat. But ’tis all rumour. I pity the poor bugger, whoever he is.’

Setting down his fork, Devlin reached inside his shirt, withdrew Casvellan’s letter, and passed it across to his uncle who palmed it and hid it so swiftly, Devlin could not have said where it had gone.

 ‘I’ve got one for you to take back,’ Hedley murmured. ‘I was told it had come from Rennes. You’ll have it before you leave. More coffee?’

‘No, thanks.’ Devlin cleaned his plate with a chunk of bread. ‘These letters –’

‘No use asking me,’ Hedley interrupted. ‘I run this place, do a bit of free trading, and mind my own business. I’ll do my bit for England passing them on. As for what’s in them,’ he shook his head. ‘I don’t know and don’t want to.’

Devlin couldn’t blame him. Just handling the letters was a huge risk. If his uncle were caught the punishment would be severe. He stood up, patting his stomach. ‘I feel better for that. Thank Eve for me.’ He turned. ‘Right, boys. Time to get the cargo loaded.’

It was mid-afternoon when the mail coach pulled up outside the Royal Hotel in Falmouth’s Market Street. A flunkey opened the door and Jenefer climbed out, aching and weary from the bone-rattling ride.

‘Excuse me, in which direction is Wodehouse Place?’

‘Down ’ere,’ he pointed, ‘left up Well Lane, up the steps and turn left, then turn right at the end of the street.’

‘Thank you,’ Jenefer said, hoping she would remember. But he had already gone, clambering up onto the roof to unload chests and portmanteaux.

Jenefer eased her way through passengers waiting for their luggage and others waiting to board and set off along the busy street. Intimidated by the noise and crowds she walked quickly and tried to look as if she knew where she was going.

She passed a pair of well-dressed ladies who had paused to look at the hats displayed in a milliner’s window. Noting their double-breasted coats with the new high waists, Jenefer knew she would appear to them as dowdy and unfashionable. Immediately she felt ashamed for fretting over trivialities. Far more pressing matters demanded her attention.

Both sides of the street were lined with shops: a butcher’s where braces of pheasants, partridges, and pigeons hung above an open front displaying joints of beef, mutton, and pork on a marble slab.

A greengrocer’s displayed cabbages, carrots, parsnips, potatoes, turnips, and bunches of herbs. An apothecary’s window advertised remedies for a vast range of ailments. A cobbler sat in his doorway whipping tacks from between his lips as he attached a new sole to a leather boot. The smell of fresh bread wafted from a bakery.

Every few yards, separating the shops on the lower side, alleyways led down to narrow quays. Beyond them she glimpsed the harbour and boats of every size and rig. The wind funnelling up these alleys carried the sounds of the waterfront and the acrid reek of hot pitch, stale fish, sewage, and seaweed.

She hurried past groups of seamen lurching out of inns and alehouses. While some bellowed curses and threw wild punches, others whistled and shouted lewd remarks to painted women in gaudy gowns who loitered in shadowed doorways.

She had found Helston busy. But the main street there was three times the width of this one. Here, fear that two carts would surely collide, or one of the ragged urchins darting between the wagons would fall to their deaths beneath the thundering hooves and rumbling wheels made her heart beat uncomfortably fast. She felt battered by the noise, the raucous shouting, and the pungent smells of manure, decaying fruit, rancid oil, and beer-soaked sawdust.

But at least she was here. Had it not been for Devlin Varcoe’s refusal to accept the money she had offered him for rent, she could not have afforded to make the journey.

Half an hour later she walked up the steps to the front door of Martin’s house. A gleaming brass knocker on the black-painted door indicated that the house had not been closed up. So someone was at home.

The door opened. ‘Yes?’ The elderly woman wore a plain cap. Her simple dark gown, white kerchief, and chatelaine holding several keys proclaimed her the housekeeper.

‘My name is Jenefer Trevanion. I’m the fiancée of Mr Martin Erisey.’

‘He idn here.’ The woman frowned.

‘I know –’

‘He’s abroad. Which you would be aware of, if you was who you claim to be.’

‘I am aware. But I –’ Jenefer bit her tongue and started again. ‘Is Mr Erisey senior at home?

The housekeeper shook her head. ‘In London he is. There idn nobody here but me.’ She started to close the door.

‘Wait! Please! I understand that my coming here like this is … irregular. But my father died recently and I was expecting Mr Erisey’s return several weeks ago.’

‘Well, he idn back yet.’ She stepped back once more.

‘Letters,’ Jenefer said in desperation. ‘I wrote several letters. Were they delivered here?’

The housekeeper hesitated. ‘Yes, they came. And I took them down to Mr Erisey’s lawyer, like I was told.’

‘His lawyer?’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘Will you give me the address? Please? It is a matter of urgency. Otherwise I would not –’

‘Hellings and Vincent in Market Street. Just this side of Bell’s Court.’

‘ Thank you.’ The door closed before Jenefer had finished speaking.

Her cheeks hot, her heart thumping against her ribs at the woman’s rudeness, she turned away and retraced her steps. Daylight was beginning to fade and her anxiety was mounting when she arrived at the lawyer’s offices.

Waiting outside a panelled mahogany door she listened to the low murmur of question and answer. She wondered what the clerk was saying and gripped her purse more tightly. Then the door opened and the clerk gestured for her to enter. As she went in the door closed softly on his retreating back.

‘Miss Trevanion? My name is Vincent. I am Mr Erisey’s attorney.’

Dropping a curtsey, Jenefer sat down on a hard chair clearly designed to discourage visitors from lingering and watched the lawyer move round behind a large oak desk on which documents were neatly stacked in piles. He was a stocky man with a ruddy complexion and a paunch that strained against his waistcoat. Jenefer saw at a glance that his black frock coat and small clothes were of superior quality, his stockings spotless and his shoes highly polished. His grizzled wig indicated a man unmoved by the fashion for natural hair.

‘How may I help you?’

His tone and expression were noncommittal. But as she met his gaze the kindness she saw there eased her tension and loosened her tongue. She told him of her changed circumstances, her attempts to contact Martin and her decision to come after reading of the packet ship’s skirmish in the newspaper.

‘Mr Erisey’s housekeeper said she was told to bring my letters here to you.’

‘As indeed she did.’

‘Then you know where he is?’ Hope leapt, only to be dashed as he shook his head.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t. My instructions were to forward any mail for Mr Erisey to an address in London.’

‘Where –’

‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to disclose that information. I sympathise with your predicament, Miss Trevanion. Unfortunately it is not within my power to alleviate it.’ His expression softened slightly. ‘You know there might be any number of reasons why you have not heard from him. His return might have been postponed due to the negotiations taking longer than expected. Or it may be that something as simple but infuriating as bad weather caused him to delay his sailing.’ Placing his hands flat on the table he rose to his feet, a clear signal that the interview was at an end.

‘I am sure you would have been informed had anything untoward occurred. I fear the only advice I can give you is to be patient.’ His smile conveyed both sympathy and apology.

Jenefer rose. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’