Morgan’s Run (18 page)

No, William Henry was not dead. Would never have gone close enough to the river to drown. He had lectured his son on the subject, said that the Avon was hungry, and William Henry had listened, had understood the danger. Richard knew as well as Dick, the Cousins James and Mr. Prichard what must have transpired between boy and man: Parfrey had made amorous advances and William Henry had fled. But not in the direction of the river. An agile, clever little boy like William Henry? No, he would have scrambled up into the rocks and made his escape across country; even now he might be curled up asleep beneath some sheltering bank on Durdham Down, prepared to make the long walk home tomorrow. Terrified, but alive.

And so Richard comforted himself, talked himself away from the truth everybody else saw clearly, glad of one thing: that Peg had not lived to witness this. Truly God was good. He had taken Peg as if with a bolt of lightning, and closed her eyes before they could know despair.

Some thousands
flocked with the Mayor’s consent to help search for William Henry. Every sailor on watch scanned the mud in his vicinity, sometimes leaped overboard to examine a huddled, greasy grey heap amid the four-legged carcasses and the refuse of 50,000 people. To no avail. Those who could afford horses rode as far afield as the Pill, Blaize Castle, Kingswood, and every village within miles of Clifton and Durdham Down; others prowled the river-banks turning over barrels, sloppy floats of turf, anything that might catch and conceal a body. But no one found William Henry.

“ ’Tis a week,” said Dick gruffly, “and there is no sign. The Mayor says we must give it up.”

“Yes, I understand, Father,” said Richard, “but I will never give it up. Never.”

“Accept it, please! Think what it is doing to your mother.”

“I cannot and will not accept it.”

Was this blind refusal to accept better than those oceans of tears he had shed when little Mary died? At least they had been an outlet. This was awful. More awful by far than Peg or little Mary.

“Did Richard lose all hope of finding William Henry,” said Cousin James-the-druggist over a mug of rum, “he would have nothing whatsoever to live for. His whole family is gone, Dick! At least this way he can hope. I have prayed and the Reverend James has prayed that there never is a body. Then Richard will survive.”

“This ain’t survival,” said Dick. “It is a living Hell.”

“For you and Mag, yes. For Richard, it is the prolongation of hope—and life. Do not badger him.”

Richard had
not found a job either, but that did not carry the same urgency it would have were his father not in the tavern business. Ten years had gone by since Dick took up the license of the Cooper’s Arms, which had outlived most of the other less pretentious taverns in Bristol’s center. Though it could never expect the likes of the Steadfast Society or the Union Club to darken its door, and despite those dreadful years of depression, the Cooper’s Arms still had its customers. The moment an old regular got his job back or found a new one, he returned with his family to his old watering place. So the summer of 1784 saw the Cooper’s Arms in fairly good condition—not as full as it had been in 1774, but sufficiently so to keep Dick, Mag and Richard busy. Nor was it necessary to find school fees for William Henry.

Two months went by. In September, Colston’s opened its gates to paying pupils again—though not with Mr. Prichard as the new Head. The disappearance of William Henry Morgan and the suicide of George Parfrey, Latin master, had effectively ruined his chances to succeed to that august position. As the old Head was not there to bear the blame for this nightmare, the Reverend Mr. Prichard inherited its mantle—and its odium. Questions were being asked in the Bishop’s Palace by some very important Bristolians.

At about the same moment as Colston’s reopened, Richard had a letter from Mr. Benjamin Fisher, Collector of Excise, asking to see him at once.

“Ye may wonder,” said Mr. Fisher when Richard reported in, “why we have not yet arrested William Thorne. That we will do only as a last resort—so far we have concentrated our energies upon Mr. Thomas Cave in the hope that he will produce the sixteen hundred pounds’ fine necessary to settle the matter without prosecution. However,” he went on, beginning to smile in quiet satisfaction, “evidence has come to light which puts a different complexion on the case. Do sit down, Mr. Morgan.” He cleared his throat. “I heard about your little boy, and I am very sorry.”

“Thank you,” said Richard woodenly, seating himself.

“Do the names William Insell and Robert Jones mean anything to you, Mr. Morgan?”

“No, sir,” said Richard.

“A pity. Both of them worked at Cave’s distillery during your time there.”

“As still men?”

“Yes.”

Frowning, Richard tried to remember the eight or nine faces he had seen around the gloomy cavern, regretting now that he had held himself aloof from those workmen’s parties while Thorne was away. No, he had no idea which one was Insell, or Jones. “I am sorry, I simply do not remember them.”

“No matter. Insell came to me yesterday and confessed that he had been withholding information, it seems from fear of what Thorne might do to him. At about the time that you discovered the pipes and casks, Insell overheard a conversation between Thorne, Cave and Mr. Ceely Trevillian. They were talking about the illicit rum in plain terms. Though Insell had not suspected the swindle as he went about his work, this conversation made it clear that there was collusion among the three to defraud the Excise. So I intend to prosecute Cave and Trevillian as well as Thorne, and Excise will be able to get its money by garnishing Cave’s property.”

A small shaft of feeling penetrated Richard’s numbness; he sat back and looked contented. “That is excellent news, sir.”

“Do nothing, Mr. Morgan, until the case comes to trial. We will have to investigate matters some more before we move to arrest the three, but rest assured that it is going to happen.”

Two months ago the news would have sent him whooping back to the Cooper’s Arms; today it was merely of passing interest.

“I cannot remember Insell or Jones,” he said to his father, “but my evidence is corroborated.”

“That,” said Dick, pointing into a corner, “is William Insell. He came while ye were away and asked to see you.”

One look at Insell’s face jogged Richard’s memory. A fresh young fellow, good-natured and hardworking. Unfortunately he had been Thorne’s chief butt; twice he had felt Thorne’s rope’s end, and twice he had suffered the flogging without fighting back. Not unusual. To fight back meant losing one’s job, and in hard times jobs were too precious to lose. Richard would never have suffered so much as the threat of a flogging, but Richard had never been in a situation where the rope’s end was an alternative. Like William Henry, he had the knack of avoiding corporal punishment without needing to be obsequious; he was also a qualified craftsman, not a simple workman. Insell was a perfect victim, poor fellow. Not his own fault. Just the way he was made.

Richard carried two half-pints of rum to the corner table and sat down. This was indicative of a change in his behavior that no one had thought it wise to comment upon; Richard was drinking rum these days, and increasingly so.

“How d’ye do, Willy?” he asked, pushing one rum toward the pallid Mr. Insell.

“I had to come!” Insell gasped.

“What is it?” asked Richard, waiting for the burning fluid to start deadening his pain.

“Thorne! He has found out I went to the Excise.”

“I am not surprised, if ye blurt it out to everyone. Now calm yourself. Have some rum.”

Insell drank thirstily, gulped and half-retched on the power of Dick’s unwatered best stuff, and ceased to tremble. Finished with his own half-pint, Richard went to draw two more mugs.

“I have lost my job,” said Insell then.

“In which case, why d’ye need to fear Thorne?”

“The man is a murderer! He will find me and murder me!”

Privately Richard considered that Ceely Trevillian was more likely to do any murders necessary, but did not attempt to argue. “Where d’ye live, Willy?”

“In Clifton. At Jacob’s Well.”

“And what has Robert Jones to do with it?”

“I told him what I had overheard. Mr. Fisher of the Excise was interested in that, but he thinks I am far more important.”

“Rightly so. Does Thorne know you live at Jacob’s Well?”

“I do not think so.”

“Does Jones know?” Richard suddenly remembered Robert Jones, who was a crawler, smarmed up to Thorne. He was how Thorne knew, definitely.

“I never told him.”

“Then rest easy, Willy. If ye’ve nothing better to do, spend your days here. The Cooper’s Arms is one place Thorne will not look for you. But if you drink rum, ye’ll have to pay for it.”

Horrified, Insell pushed the second mug away. “Do I have to pay for this?” he asked.

“These are on my slate. Cheer up, Willy. In my experience, rogues are not very clever. Ye’ll be safe enough.”

The days
were beginning to draw in a little, which limited the amount of time Richard had to search for William Henry. His first call was always the dell by the Avon, from which place he would clamber up the frowning cliffs, calling William Henry’s name; from the top of the gorge he would strike across Durdham Down, and so come eventually to Clifton Green. The walk home led him past William Insell’s lodging place, but he usually met Insell on the footpath across Brandon Hill, hurrying to beat the darkness, yet too afraid to leave the Cooper’s Arms until after sunset.

He had worn out two more pairs of shoes, but no one in the extended Morgan family attempted to remonstrate with him; the more Richard walked, the less time he had to drink rum. Brother William suddenly needed to have his saws set and sharpened more often (he pleaded a new West Indian timber), and that gave Richard some other place to walk than Clifton. Who knew? Perhaps the little fellow had gotten himself all the way to Cuckold’s Pill, so the journeys to William’s sawpits were not entirely wasted time. And he could not drink rum when he needed his eye to set a saw properly.

He had not wept, could not weep. The rum was a way to dull his pain, which was the pain of hope, hope that one day William Henry would walk through the door.

“I never thought to say this,” Richard said to Cousin James-the-druggist halfway through September, “but I am beginning to wish that I had found William Henry’s body. Then I could have no hope. As it is, I must assume William Henry is alive somewhere, and that in itself is torture—what sort of life must he be leading, not to come home?”

His cousin once removed eyed him sadly. Richard was thinner yet physically fitter—all that walking and climbing had honed down a body always in good trim until now it was probably capable of lifting anvils or withstanding the ravages of any disease. How old was he now that he had just had another birthday? Six-and-thirty. The Morgans tended to make old bones, and if Richard did not ruin his liver with rum, he looked as if he would live to be ninety. Yet what for? Oh,
pray
he put this awful business behind him, took another wife and begot another family!

“Two and one-half months, Cousin James! Not a sign of him! Perhaps”—he shuddered—“that abominable creature hid his body.”

“Dear fellow, put it behind you, please.”

“I cannot.”

William Insell
did not arrive at the Cooper’s Arms the next day; glad of an excuse to walk out to Clifton earlier than usual, Richard put his hat on and went to the door.

“Off already?” asked Dick, surprised.

“Insell has not come, Father.”

Dick grunted. “That is no loss. I am very tired of him in his corner looking so woebegone that he puts the customers off.”

“I agree,” said Richard, managing a grin, “but his absence is a worry. I will see for myself why he ain’t here.”

The path across Brandon Hill was so familiar by now that he could have negotiated it blindfold; Richard was outside William Insell’s house within fifteen minutes of leaving home.

A girl sat hunched on the stoop. Hardly aware of her, Richard went to step around her. Her foot came out.

“Bon jour,” she said.

Startled, he looked down into the most bewitching female face he had ever seen. Big, saucily demure black eyes, long-lashed—a dimple in either rosy cheek—a pair of lush, unpainted red lips—a glowing skin—an uncoiffured mop of glossy black curls. Oh, she was pretty! And so
clean
-looking!