Devil's Prize (17 page)

Roz gave a brief nod. ‘Why did you want to see me?’

‘Roz, I don’t know what to do. I’m – I’m in trouble.’

Roz gave her a searching look. ‘A child?’

Tamara nodded.

‘Whose?’

‘Roz! Devlin’s, of course.’ She glanced at her friend. But Roz remained silent, simply pressing the hand tucked through her arm, and Tamara felt gratitude welling up. People said Roz didn’t talk. She did. What she didn’t do was ask a lot of questions. She listened.

‘Even now, after – you know I’ve loved him for years.’ She glanced at Roz, who simply nodded. ‘And I thought – I truly believed – but he – oh Roz.’ Her breath caught in her chest and her voice emerged small, broken and aching with hurt. ‘He doesn’t want me.’ She fought her grief, grateful for Roz’s silence and the comfort of their linked arms. Swallowing the choking lump in her throat she took a deep steadying breath.

‘His brother came to the house this morning to tell us that Devlin’s boat has been captured by a Customs cutter. My mother is frantic about the disgrace the family will suffer once my condition is known. She’s insisting I marry Thomas.’ She shuddered. The silence lengthened: growing tense and thick. ‘Roz –’

‘No.’ Just the one word: quiet, shaded with pity, adamant.

Tamara heard the underlying sadness and knew she had caused it. But driven by compelling need she could not stop. ‘If there was any other way, I wouldn’t ask.’

‘There is. You’ve just told me.’

‘But if there’s no baby there will be no humiliation for my family, and I won’t have to marry a man I loathe. Please –’

‘No.’ Roz’s tone was flat. ‘I can’t.’ But she didn’t withdraw her arm. ‘You’re not thinking.’

Tamara’s strangled laugh verged on hysteria. ‘I can’t sleep for thinking. Every moment of the day it’s –’

Roz stopped, pulling Tamara round to face her. ‘If I did as you ask you could die. Your mother would seek someone to blame. She knows we’re friends. I’d hang.’

Tamara stared into Roz’s eyes, saw a truth that hadn’t even crossed her mind. ‘Roz, no! Oh God. I didn’t –’ Roz was right. She hadn’t thought, except of herself, her own plight, her desperation to escape marriage to Thomas.

‘Marry him and have your baby. It’s the only –’ Suddenly Roz stopped. Her grip tightened on Tamara’s arms. ‘How did he know?’

‘Who? Know what?’

‘Thomas Varcoe. He came to your house this morning.’

‘Yes –’

‘We knew something must have happened.’

‘We?’

‘Me, the landsmen. Devlin was due back with a cargo. But we never received the signal. So how did Thomas know about his brother being taken? Who told him?’

It was late afternoon when Devlin, guarded by two dragoons, reached Branoc Casvellan’s house. The dragoons were armed with swords, pistols, and instructions to shoot him if he so much looked the wrong way. Though he knew some of the soldiers by sight, these two were strangers. And had, he guessed, been chosen for that reason

But even had they been Porthinnis men, he would not have attempted escape. Not when his life and the lives of his crew depended on him reaching Trescowe and convincing the justice to see him.

What if Casvellan refused? His warning had been clear: no assistance. But surely he would want the information contained in the letter? That was the hope Devlin clung to during the ride from Porthleven.

At first the supervisor had refused to let him go, agreeing only after Devlin shrugged and announced with a certainty he did not feel, that when the justice heard of it, both the Customs officer and the cutter’s captain would lose their jobs.

Disclaiming all responsibility, the captain stormed out and returned to his ship. Careful to do everything by the book, the supervisor sent a message to the Riding Officer ordering him to call in six dragoons who had neither family nor friends in Porthinnis. When they arrived he appointed two to accompany Devlin.

Meanwhile, locked in a whitewashed room containing nothing but a wooden bench and a bucket while the remaining four dragoons stood guard outside the Custom House, the crew could only wait.

Stiff and sore, both from his beating and the long ride, Devlin obeyed the order to dismount. While one dragoon hammered on the front door, the other drew his pistol and aimed it at Devlin, who stood perfectly still, hands raised, facing the soldier. The click of the hammer being cocked was loud in the silence.

In that instant Devlin realised that the dragoons had spent the entire journey expecting him to try and escape. That he hadn’t increased rather than removed their anxiety. He sensed their unease. Any sudden movement would get him shot.

What if Casvellan was not at home? Sweat prickled his back.

The door swung open and the butler’s gaze swung from the two dragoons to Devlin.

‘You know this man?’ The dragoon on the doorstep demanded.

Fearing the butler’s denial, Devlin spoke up. ‘Tell the justice I have information for him.’ Thirst and anxiety roughened his voice.

The butler’s expression did not alter as his glance flicked from the caked blood on Devlin’s temple to the dragoon’s cocked pistol. ‘One moment, Mr Varcoe.’ He closed the door.

From the corner of his eye he saw the soldiers exchange a glance. Though they were still wary, he sensed an easing of their tension. But not his own. For his life and the lives of his crew depended on Casvellan reneging on his threat of no assistance. A tremor started in one leg and he shifted his weight. Instantly the pistol was raised. Aimed at his heart the barrel’s dark eye was perfectly steady.

‘Cramp,’ he said, careful to remain absolutely still. Minutes passed. Anxiety and anger knotted his stomach. If Casvellan refused to see him …

The front door opened once more.

Thomas left the Gillis household well pleased with his visit. He had hinted at his intention, and Morwenna Gillis was clearly anxious to secure him as a husband for her daughter. Tamara’s reluctance did not deter him. Having wanted her for years, and forced to watch while she made sheep’s eyes at his brother, he would relish her acceptance all the more. That she would accept was not in doubt. Her mother would see to it.

Should the wedding be a grand affair? It would not take many weeks for the lawyers to transfer all Devlin’s assets to him. Once he was in funds it would be very tempting to host a lavish celebration. But did he really want to throw his money away on people who had openly questioned his business skills?

Anyway, the wedding breakfast was the Gillises’ responsibility. Perhaps a small family occasion might be more suitable. Especially – Thomas found himself smiling – as he would still be in mourning for his poor dead brother.

Yes, that was a better idea. The money would be better spent on refurbishing the house. Tamara could begin work on it when they returned from their honeymoon. Where would he take her? Truro, perhaps? The season would be starting soon. Every night there would be balls, parties, and dances where he could show her off. His new wealth would ensure invitations. Then they would return to their room at one of the best hotels.

He pictured himself in an armchair, holding a glass of fine cognac, watching Tamara, his wife who had promised to love, honour, and obey him, as she slowly disrobed. He imagined the glow of firelight on her skin, her dark hair tumbling over her naked shoulders -

The door opened, jerking him out of his fantasy. ‘Willie Grose is ’ere,’ his housekeeper announced. ‘Want to see’n, do ’e?’

‘No,’ Thomas snapped. Then, ‘Yes.’

‘Which?’ Maisy Roberts was impatient.

‘Yes. Show him in.’

‘He knows the way. I got work to do.’

He heard her footsteps down the hall. A few moments later the door creaked and Willie’s head appeared round it.

‘All right, Mr Varcoe? Cold again, innit?’

Thomas ignored the hint. ‘Go down to the village and ask around. I need to know if the rumour is true.’

‘What rumour?’ Willie asked exactly as Thomas intended.

‘That my brother’s boat has been captured by one of the revenue cutters.’

‘Bleddy ’ell! Where d’ you hear that, then?’

‘That’s what I want you to find out,’ Thomas said, hiding his enjoyment of Willie’s confusion. Everything was working out exactly as he had planned. ‘Is it just a rumour? I need to know, Willie.’

 Willie’s bafflement hardened into a scowl. ‘Well, if ’Tis true, ’tis no more’n he deserve after what he done to my brother.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Best place to ask will be in the Five Mackerel. But Jack don’t let nobody sit in there without buying and I’ll have to stay a while. So –’

‘God alive,’ Thomas muttered. Opening a drawer in the side table by his chair he took out some coins and dropped them onto Willie’s grubby palm. ‘Come back tonight, after dark.’

After drinking several glasses of brandy with his pasty, Thomas fell asleep. He woke with a start and checked the clock. It was almost four. Putting on his greatcoat, beaver hat, and leather gloves, he left the house.

Reaching the harbour, he walked along the back of the quay past Devlin’s workshop with its padlocked door. He turned up the cobbled alley and slipped in through the gate, closing it behind him. At the top of the stone steps that led up to his brother’s loft he saw that door too was secured with a padlock.

He looked around to see if there was a stone, a pot, or anything beneath which Devlin might have left a key. There wasn’t. Descending to the yard he looked in the privy, feeling along the wooden lintel above the door, checking the walls and behind the door in case there might be a nail with a spare key on it. Surely there was more than one? What if he mislaid it? But if there was another, who would Devlin trust to hold it?

Jenefer was adding a column of figures when the brisk knock interrupted her. Setting down her pen and flexing cramped fingers she pushed back her chair. Who would come calling on her? It wasn’t Lizzie or Ernestine whose knocks were familiar. Betsy. Her heart lurched and she snatched the door open. Then stared in astonishment at the man standing outside.

‘Mr Varcoe.’

‘Good afternoon, Miss Trevanion. I hope I haven’t called at an inconvenient time?’

His smile was as insincere as his words. She had never liked him, and certainly didn’t trust him, convinced that from the day they had begun doing business together that Thomas Varcoe had cheated her father.

‘As it happens I am rather busy.’ No man of sense would expect to be invited in. Nor had she any intention of doing so. Yet she saw from his surprise and swiftly masked chagrin that he had presumed otherwise. Did he really believe the change in her circumstances somehow gave him right of entry? The sooner she disabused him of that notion the better. Though the cottage belonged to his brother it was, for the time being, her home.

‘What do you want, Mr Varcoe?’

His smile stiffened then faded. She sensed his anger, saw the effort it cost him to remain polite.

‘My apologies for disturbing you. I wondered if my brother had left a key with you? A key to his loft?’

Bemused, Jenefer shook her head. ‘No. Why would he?’

‘In case –’ Thomas half-turned. ‘It was just – I thought that as he had installed you in this cottage –’

‘You are offensive, sir!’ She owed him no explanation. ‘If there is nothing else –’

‘Forgive me. I did not intend –’ He bowed, abruptly formal. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Trevanion. I am in some distress. You see there is a rumour abroad in the village that the revenue cutter – my brother’s boat –’ He broke off, shaking his head. ‘So many people affected …’ With another brief bow he walked quickly away.

Jenefer closed the door. Thomas’s words and the images they had conjured whirled in her head. Had Devlin been taken prisoner? Was he – God forbid – dead? She could not, would not, believe that. But fear slid down her spine like a drop of icy water.

With Devlin dead, Thomas would inherit all his possessions, including this cottage. Then he would take revenge on her by making demands she was unwilling or unable to meet. She would be homeless again.

But the rumour was still just that, a rumour. It had not been confirmed. Who had told him? Where had they heard it? Clearly he didn’t yet have all the facts. But he would soon. What then? Crossing to the range she pulled the kettle over the flames and wrapped her arms across her body, cold and fearful.

Chapter Seventeen

‘The justice is sitting. His rooms are in the building opposite the stables. He will see you there, Mr Varcoe, without your escort.’ But as he took a step back, preparing to close the door, the dragoon raised his pistol.

‘He don’t go nowhere without us.’

Unmoved, the butler looked the soldier up and down. ‘Mr Casvellan wishes to speak to your prisoner alone. I can assure you no harm will come to either of them while he does so. His clerk will be waiting to take Mr Varcoe to the justice. Once relieved of your prisoner you may present yourselves at the back door where you will be given a mug of ale. You may also water your horses.’

Devlin watched his two escorts exchange a glance. One licked dry lips while the other gave a faint shrug.

Taking for granted the soldiers’ agreement, the butler stepped back. ‘I advise you not to keep him waiting.’

Pushing the pistol barrel gently aside with his index finger, careful not to betray even a glimmer of amusement as he wondered when and where the justice had acquired his manservant, Devlin turned and started walking round the side of the house.

The swiftness and ferocity of the squall had allowed them no time to put on their oilskins. Stowed in the bow with the spare sails, these had been left aboard the lugger. When disembarking at Porthleven he had asked for them. This request had earned him further blows and the mocking response that they’d have no need of wet-weather gear where they were going.

So Devlin had ridden from Porthleven in clothes that were wet, cold, and very uncomfortable.

The clerk was a thin man of about forty with limp mousy hair drawn back in a queue. Dressed in black apart from his neckcloth and stockings, he peered over wire-rimmed spectacles perched on his prominent nose. His hooded gaze slid from Devlin to the dragoons and back.

‘This way if you please, Mr Varcoe.’

Devlin followed the clerk up a wooden staircase to the second floor. A short passage led off the landing with a door on either side. One stood open. Devlin glanced in and saw a large table piled with ledgers and piles of documents. Behind it shelves from floor to ceiling were crammed with boxes, files, and stacks of documents tied with different coloured ribbons. The second door was closed. The clerk knocked then, without waiting for an answer, opened it.

‘Mr Varcoe, sir.’ Standing back he gestured for Devlin to enter, then closed the door leaving him alone with the justice.

Standing on the maroon patterned carpet, Devlin was very conscious of his damp stained clothes and scuffed sea boots.

Seated in front of a window behind a kneehole desk the justice stopped writing and laid down his pen. Leaning back in his chair he looked up, and his gaze narrowed.

‘You have blood on your face.’

Devlin raised a hand to his temple, wincing as his fingers touched the swelling and crusted scab, then traced the dried runnels down to his jaw. ‘No chance to clean up, sir.’

Rising, Casvellan moved across to the fireplace. Several logs burned brightly in the grate, their fragrance scenting the air. With his back to the flames he clasped his hands behind him and gazed levelly at Devlin.

‘I thought I had made myself clear.’

‘You did, sir.’

‘Then you’d better have a very good reason for coming here.’

Devlin recognised the depth of Casvellan’s anger. ‘You will be the judge of that, sir.’

‘Exactly so.’ The quiet words carried a warning. ‘I want everything, Mr Varcoe. Not what it suits you to tell me, or what you think I wish to hear.’

His life was in Casvellan’s hands. If the justice possessed other sources of information he might already be aware of what had happened. Total honesty, and trust in Casvellan’s fairness were his only options.

Devlin began with the rumours circulating in Roscoff and his uncle’s warning not to be caught with the letters. He continued by detailing the cargo, the arrival of the revenue cutter and the attempted escape which included dumping the contraband.

‘Did you fire on the cutter?’ Casvellan asked.

Devlin shook his head. ‘No. My boat isn’t armed, neither is my crew, apart from the knives and axes that are part of our fishing gear. You don’t carry guns unless you intend to use them. If you use them and you’re caught, the law says you hang. I’ve always relied on skilled seamanship to get out of trouble.’

‘Not this time.’

‘It wasn’t bad luck or carelessness that got us caught. The cutter was waiting for us. The captain knew where we’d be and when.’

Twin creases appeared between Casvellan’s brows. ‘Someone betrayed you?’

Devlin gave a terse nod. Anger burned in his gut each time he thought of it. Nearly everyone in the village was involved with the free trade. Those who helped unload a cargo, the batmen who ran alongside the pack animals to deal with any would-be thieves, the farmer who had dug a storage pit beneath his barn, and the priest who took care not to notice casks in his crypt. When the Riding Officer came asking questions, the villagers shrugged and shook their heads. They hadn’t heard or seen anything.

‘Tell me about the letter,’ Casvellan demanded.

Devlin repeated what he had read, closing his eyes to help him to visualise the writing and recall the exact phrasing, including the brief notation on the outer sheet. He concluded by describing briefly the treatment his crew had received at the hands of the cutter’s men.

‘Did you offer resistance?’

‘Outnumbered four to one by men with pistols and muskets? No, we didn’t.’

‘So why …?’ he indicated the blood on Devlin’s face.

‘We were taken below. When two seamen brought out iron shackles and chains I said they weren’t necessary. Damn it, we had no weapons. We weren’t going anywhere. But they shackled us anyway.’

‘Given your reputation, Mr Varcoe, are you really surprised?’

But Devlin had seen the flicker in Casvellan’s eyes. The point made, he pressed on. ‘Sir, I asked for this interview not only because of what was in the letter, information I believed you would want to know, but because I think I know who the agent is. If I’m right, the initials are those of Martin Erisey who is, or was, a diplomat. I know of him is because he is betrothed to Miss Trevanion whose father financed our ventures. Colonel Trevanion died in the fire that destroyed their house.’

Casvellan nodded. ‘I heard about that. Go on.’

‘She – Miss Trevanion – believes Erisey to be in America. But he was expected back weeks ago.’

‘I see.’ Casvellan’s frown grew more pronounced.

‘Sir, it’s clear from his letter he’s in grave danger. He needs to get out of France. Let me go and bring him back.’

Casvellan didn’t respond immediately. Knowing better than to press, Devlin waited.

‘And in return? For we both know there is a price on your offer.’

Devlin met his gaze. ‘My boat, and freedom for my crew and myself.’

Casvellan regarded him evenly, his expression revealing nothing. ‘You want your boat and your freedom? After you were caught smuggling contraband?’

‘They can’t prove that, sir. We had nothing on board.’

‘You ask a lot, Mr Varcoe.’

‘I offer a fair trade, sir. And I know the man by sight.’

‘Assuming you could make good on this claim, why should I agree such terms?’

‘Sir, you trusted me to carry your letter to Roscoff. I’ve just given you important information. What can you lose? If I bring Erisey back he’ll have more to tell than he could put in letters. That must be worth my freedom. If I’m killed while trying to bring him out,’ Devlin shrugged, ‘so be it. Better that than prison.’

Casvellan half-turned, staring into the flames for several moments. Then he raised his head. ‘This agent is owed help to get home. However, if I agree your terms you cannot tell your crew where they are going or why.’

Devlin’s mouth dried, but his response was immediate and firm. ‘Can’t do that, sir. It’s no secret that free traders sometimes bring back escaped prisoners of war from France. British Naval officers mostly, but packet men as well. I’m willing to use that as a cover story. But for this to succeed I need my mate, Jared Sweet. I won’t lie to him, or to my crew. It’s a matter of trust.’

In the silence Devlin heard his own heartbeat and the soft crackle of the fire, and willed the justice to agree.

Eventually Casvellan gave an abrupt nod. ‘All right. Is the Revenue cutter still at Porthleven?’

Devlin shook his head. ‘Probably on its way back to Falmouth. The captain was furious about the Customs officer allowing me to come and see you.’

Casvellan eyed him curiously. ‘How exactly did you achieve that?’

‘I gave him to understand his job could be at risk if he didn’t, sir.’

‘You threatened him?’

‘Unarmed and surrounded by men with pistols and muskets? How could I –’

‘Enough, Mr Varcoe,’ Casvellan gestured wearily. ‘You will need your boat.’

‘Don’t you worry about that, sir. We’ll –’

‘But you will have to manage with only half your crew. Take it or leave it, Mr Varcoe,’ he said as Devlin opened his mouth. ‘How many of your men are at Porthleven?’

‘Six.’ Devlin knew argument was pointless. But he didn’t have to like it.

‘You may choose three. The remaining three will be held at Bodmin gaol both as hostages to your return, and,’ Casvellan added coolly, ‘to allay any suspicion among my colleagues that I might be entering into free trading on my own account.’ Returning to his desk, he took a fresh sheet of paper, picked up his pen and dipped it in the inkpot.

‘I need the names of the men you wish to sail with you.’

Devlin raked both hands through damp tangled hair. His fingertips skimmed lumps, scabbed cuts and tender bruises. Anger flared but he set it aside.

Who to take? Sailing short-handed on such a mission was riskier than anything he had previously attempted. It doubled the danger and there was a very real chance he would not succeed. Capture would mean death.

All his crew were skilled seamen. Yet those he would have chosen first, he must leave behind. Sam had a wife and young son. Ben was the sole support of his father, Harry. Joe’s mother was a widow whose two other sons had been snatched from their fishing boat by the press gang.

‘Danny Pawle, Andy Voss, and Billy May.’ He waited while Casvellan wrote.

‘And the names of those to remain behind?’

‘Sam Clemmow, Ben Tozer, and Joe Ince. Sir, can I tell them why –’

‘You will have no contact with them until you return with Erisey. Then I will arrange for their release, and their transport from Bodmin to Porthinnis. In the meantime they will be told nothing, for reasons that should be obvious.’

Devlin understood. What they didn’t know they couldn’t let slip. Secrecy was vital. If England had spies and agents in France then the reverse was almost certainly true. Though many French landed gentry had fled the Terror, some arriving in Cornwall, not all French spies and agents were of French nationality. The Irish hated the English and had allied themselves with the French Revolutionary ideals of liberty, equality and brotherhood.

Porthinnis was safe enough because outsiders would be recognised at once. But there was no knowing the origin or allegiance of prisoners held in Bodmin gaol – men and women sentenced to transportation or hanging as well as those awaiting trial.

Casvellan’s voice broke into Devlin’s thoughts. ‘I’ve ordered that all six men be brought here under guard. On the ground floor of this building two rooms are used as holding cells. There is also a storeroom where you will wait. It is at least dry if not particularly comfortable.

‘When your men arrive they will be divided, locked into the two rooms, and their escort sent home. Once darkness falls, if you can remove Pawle, Voss, and May without alerting the others, or anyone else, you will be allowed to continue. If not –’

‘I’ll get them out.’ Devlin interrupted. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about.

‘Your remaining crew will be collected tomorrow morning by the prison wagon from Penzance. About your boat –’

‘We should reach Helston around midnight and Porthleven soon after. We’ll take her in the early hours, sir. I reckon it will be mid-morning before anyone notices she’s gone.’

Scattering sand over the paper, Casvellan folded it. Rising, he crossed to the fireplace and tugged a bell-pull. Then he lit a taper and returned to the bureau where he held the flame beneath a stick of scarlet wax and dripped it onto the folded sheet. Lastly he impressed the molten wax with a seal.

The door opened admitting the clerk. ‘Sir?’

‘Give this to the dragoons. They are to carry it with all speed to the Customs officer at Porthleven. You may inform them that their prisoner will remain in my custody.’

After the clerk had gone, Casvellan turned to Devlin. ‘How long do you think - ?’

‘Four days. Five at most.’

‘James will bring down a basket of cold meat, bread, cheese, fruit, and ale, sufficient for four days.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Good luck.’

Devlin knew he was going to need it.

Thomas smiled at his reflection in the tall cheval glass. Forty-eight hours had passed since his visit to the Gillis house. Having expected him to return that afternoon, or the one following, Morwenna Gillis would be in a state of anxiety, fearful in case he might have had second thoughts. That anxiety would give him considerable advantage when it came to negotiating Tamara’s dowry.

An hour later he took his place on the sofa as he had done two days earlier. Morwenna’s greeting had been so flatteringly effusive he had congratulated himself on his decision to delay his return. There was no doubting the relief in her welcome. As she continued to gush he was briefly surprised. Then he decided simply to enjoy the experience. It was all working out exactly as he planned.

He was about to cut short Morwenna’s twittering with an enquiry about Tamara, when the door opened. Immediately her mother exhorted her in syrupy tones to come and greet their guest.

On his feet immediately, Thomas made his bow and Tamara curtseyed in reply. He waited until she sat, then resumed his place on the sofa from where he was able to take in every detail of her appearance. He was used to seeing her in one of the habits she wore for riding or walking in the village. But he guessed that today her mother had demanded she choose her dress in anticipation of his visit.