The Blighted Cliffs (4 page)

The
man called Gibble hobbled into the room. His face bore the ravages of
more diseases than I could imagine, and several greater
disfigurements only his mother could have inflicted. The thin candle
he held did little to soften his features, and he seemed impervious
to the hot wax dribbling over his hand. His chest was bent almost to
his stomach - an anchor back, as they called it – and what
little hair he had jutted out in strange, craggy formations. If the
aldermen of Dover had sought a turnkey to put the fear of hell into
their prisoners, I doubt Lucifer himself could have supplied a better
candidate.

'Was
'im?' slurred Gibble, lifting a fat finger in my direction.

'This
is Mr Jerrold,' Stubb growled. Even he seemed repelled by the
turnkey. "Is Lordship'll want 'ira soon. I'd watch out,' he
added.

"E's
a killer. Broke a man's neck.'

'Gyah,'
gurgled Gibble inscrutably. He tugged at the large ring of keys on
his belt and shuffled to the iron gate before us. After much fumbling
and rasping, I heard the click of the lock and saw the gate open. It
did not sound as though it had seen much use.

'Af'rou,'
Gibble mumbled, crooking an arm in the direction of the open door. He
might have attempted an ironic bow, but with the angle of his back it
was hard to tell. Stubb however had no time for pleasantries, and
without warning sent me staggering forward with a violent heave. I
tumbled through the gate and went sprawling onto my face into a cold
puddle of slime. The gate squeaked shut.

'I'll
be back for 'im,' Stubb told Gibble, without any indication of when
that happy hour might come.

I
heard him stamp away and, looking up, saw the faint light of Gibble's
candle retreating into his lair. Then I was alone, in the dark.

I
pulled myself off my stomach and slumped against the dank wall. I
felt myself shaking with spasms, involuntary and uncontrollable, and
made no attempt to check them. My cheeks throbbed, and I ached to
cry, but no tears came. A wave of horror and pity broke over me as I
counted the injustices piled upon me since my arrival in Dover. I
thought back on a lifetime of my father's sermons, my uncle's
lectures, and the censures of the navy; wondering whether they had
all been right: that I was doomed to fall into the Inferno. Would it
matter that I was innocent of the death of the man on the beach? Were
these the wages of sin my father had so coldly predicted for me only
a week before, the whirlwind coming to reap me? Was I so completely
forsaken?

The
stink of shit filled my nose, and I tasted blood at the back of my
mouth. I imagined myself beating and kicking Stubb until he begged
for my mercy, or hurling Gibble into his own prison, but then I
remembered falling in myself, felt the grazes on my hands and arms,
and the tearless sobbing began again.

I
raged and trembled, with all these thoughts and a hundred others
burning through my head, until at last my mind was emptied and I fell
into a broken sleep.

3

A
whispering in my ear opened my eyes. I remembered dark tales of
attacks and robberies, and worse besides, perpetrated upon hapless
prisoners who dropped their guard. Was it too late for me already? I
patted a hand down my side. No, I could feel the cloth of my shirt,
and my breeches: at least they had left me the clothes on my back,
soaked in filth though they were. And I was still lying in the
position I remembered, so perhaps my virtue - I could almost hear a
derisive hnh! from my uncle at that word - remained intact.

Beyond
that, I had little worth the trouble of taking.

'Oh
.'

The
voice again, staying me on the brink of another round of self-pity.
Something tugged at my sleeve, and I flinched in momentary terror,
but there was no force behind it, no assault.

'Oh
!'

This
time, I had the wit to turn my head to seek the whisper's owner. The
prison's gloom seemed to have lightened, or perhaps my eyes were
grown accustomed to it, for I could now see the shape of a figure
squatting next to me, his eyes very white as they peered at me.

'Who
are you?' I mumbled through parched lips.

'Who's
yerself?' he retorted, his teeth flashing in the darkness. His skin
must be very dark, I thought, for I could see nothing of his face but
the eyes and mouth.

'Jer
...
Jerrold,' I stammered. 'Martin Jerrold. Lieutenant Martin Jerrold.
Sometimes.'

'Soldier,
is you?'

'Navy.'

The
eyeballs widened. 'Yet don't say? What they do yer for then?
Deserting? Treason?' His voice dropped knowingly. 'The seaman's
bent?' He must have seen me shiver, for he hurriedly added, 'Not that
I goes fer that meself, see.'

'Murder.'
If I was to swing for it, I could at least use my notoriety to keep
the other prisoners at bay.

'Christ,'
said my companion, clearly impressed. 'Who'd yet do?'

'I've
no idea,' I had to admit. 'I was in the wrong place at an unfortunate
time. What brought you here?'

There
was some sort of movement by his face; possibly he was tapping his
nose. 'Detained,' he said, 'at 'is Majesty's pleasure.'

Our
conversation paused. I peered about me, trying to glimpse more of my
surroundings, but there was nothing to see. Where were the other
inmates? I wondered. Or was this a dungeon for particularly depraved
criminals?

'Not
a lot of custom at the moment,' agreed my fellow prisoner. 'Gets a
bit lonely sometimes.'

'Is
Dover really so honest a town?' If Stubb was any example, I had no
reason to doubt the enthusiasm of its constabulary.

I
heard a cackle of laughter.

'Don't
you believe it, sir, whatever their lordships tries to tell yer. Just
the wrong time o' year. They 'ad the assizes last week, cleared out
the 'ole gaol to go afore the bench.' I heard a finger slide across
his neck. 'Not a lot come back.' He chuckled wickedly. 'Though the
truth of it is, they've not 'ad a lot to catch since old Cal Drake
got scragged.'

I
guessed he was about to launch into the story, though I was in little
mood to hear a tale which ended with a hanging, but at that moment I
heard a commotion at the far end of the prison and a familiar voice
bawling for Gibble.

'They'll
be comin' to take you to the judge,' offered my companion.

'Sir
Lawrence.' I suspected he'd seen plenty of men make the journey. 'A
merciful man?' I asked hopefully.

Again,
that awful cackle. 'Sir Lawrence, 'e's one of 'em judges what thinks
you can stop crime by 'angin' criminals.' He looked theatrically
around the empty prison. 'Per'aps 'e's right. But you never know, 'e
might be in a good 'umour this mornin'.' This, too, seemed a fine
joke.

I
heard the clamour of the gate, and the unmistakable tread of Stubb's
boots.

'Mr
Jerrold,' he called. 'Sir Lawrence'll 'ave you now.'

'See
yer soon,' said the prisoner cheerfully.

Stubb
marched me out through the gate, past Gibble's incoherent mutterings,
and into the square outside. The light stung my eyes, and I screwed
them shut; but no sooner had I done so than a great slap hit me full
on the face. I recoiled at the shock and my eyes snapped open. It
couldn't have been Stubb, for he had released his grip and was
staring about, as surprised as I. Then other hands grabbed me, and I
felt the cold steel of a blade against my back.

What
w
as
this? Surely the death of a stranger on a beach could not have
provoked such violence.

'Keep
still, sir,' came a voice in my ear, and through the haze of' fear
and confusion I thought I recognized it.

Strong
arms were holding me fast, but the knife was slicing up through my
shirt, not into my ribs. The last remnant of cloth gave way, and I
felt it being hauled off me. A small rivulet ran off my hair and into
my eye, and I realized that the slap to my face had not been blow,
but a cascade of freezing water. I shook my head to clear it like a
wet dog, as Ducker said later - and shook it again when the
unexpected figure of Captain Crawley appeared before me, holding what
looked like a large bucket.

'Arms
up now, sir.' The solid voice spoke again, and I unthinkingly lifted
my dripping arms into the air. Clean white cotton tumbled down over
my head, and the hands behind me tugged it into place. 'Now, if
you'll keep your 'ead there for just a moment.' A broad fist bunched
my hair together and pulled it into a queue; I felt a ribbon frap it
into place.

'Now
the coat,' ordered Crawley quickly.

I
meekly slipped my arms into the sleeves that were held up, and saw
the white lapels and cuffs of my dress uniform coat. No, not my dress
uniform coat, for it was a little short, but certainly an officer's
coat.

'Is
this a rescue?' I asked, managing at last to form some words.

'Sartorially,
yes,' said Crawley. 'Had you gone in there as you were, they'd have
hanged you on grounds of decency alone. And the public health.
Justice may be blind, but I cannot think that she has no sense of
smell.' He squinted at me. 'At least now you might pass for an
officer.'

'Looks
better from back aft,' said the voice behind me, which at last I
identified as Ducker's.

But
there was no more time to admire my appearance, for Stubb had
regained himself and was advancing menacingly on Crawley.

'What
the 'ell is you about?' he demanded. 'Does you want to be charged for
assaulting a public constable?'

'If
the Dover constabulary melt in the rain, Mr Stubb, then I must fear
for the order of this town.' Crawley was at his most contemptuous.

'Was
the shock of a bath so great?'

Stubb
growled like a hound, but Crawley held his gaze unflinchingly.

Ducker
had stepped around to stand next to him, and he was at least the
equal of the constable: not as broad, but with an advantage in
height.

Stubb
lifted his chin dismissively, then rounded on me, clapping his iron
hand on my shoulder once more. 'You'll be late for Sir Lawrence,' he
snarled. 'And 'e don't like to be kept waitin'.' He dragged me across
the road, under the arches of the guildhall and up the staircase,
with Crawley and Ducker in close pursuit.

'Remember,
Lieutenant,' called Crawley encouragingly. 'The magistrate will not
hang you himself, only commit you to gaol until the assizes.'

Clearly
he had not considered that that would condemn me to another six
months of Gibble's hospitality.

The
jurats of Dover had provided well for themselves when they built
their hall, panelling it with dark wood and hanging laudatory
self-portraits on the walls to watch over future generations. Windows
all around kept the room no dimmer than the world outside, and the
sputtering candles on a round chandelier made a feeble attempt at
homeliness. Long tables and benches edged three sides of the room,
but all were empty save the top table, where a trio of sombre figures
sat together, all in black suits. The one on the left must be the
clerk, for he scratched furiously at the paper on the desk with great
flourishes of his quill, jabbing it into the inkwell periodically and
spraying fountains of ink all about him. To the right sat the perfect
reverse of this activity, a narrow man with a pronounced skull and
sallow skin, perched very upright and quite still. And between them,
wrapped in a thick black cloak which made him seem twice the size of
his companions, the magistrate, tie had a crooked back and a fleshy
face that hung in folds off his cheeks. His eyes were deeply sunken,
cast in shadow by the heavy lids about them, and he wore his hair
powdered bone-white. His fingers, when they were not pressed together
in front of his mouth, fiddled incessantly with a small ring of
beads.