The Hidden Man (15 page)

‘I know. But I do what I'm told. See, the Sergeant said most particular, I was not to let you discover me.'

‘But what did he say to you about Zadok Moon? What does he want him for?'

‘He's a witness in Mr Pimbo the goldsmith's death.'

‘That's true,' confirmed Fidelis. ‘As I know because I myself have been enquiring after him on behalf of the Coroner. But that is not the business of the Sergeant, or the Mayor.'

‘The way I see it, doctor, is what isn't their business is nobody's business. D'you follow me? They wanted me to take particular note of where you would meet Moon. And then most particular to find out Moon's residence, by trailing him there.'

His cup was drained again and so, more significantly, was the bottle. But instead of ordering a new one, Fidelis stood up and spoke sharply to the constable.

‘It's time to give this up, Jacob. Your mission is revealed to me and you are unmasked. You are miles from your own parish and have no conceivable authority here. Take a bed for the night and trot back to Preston first thing. You may report to your masters that I have not found Zadok Moon, and they must be satisfied with that.'

Jacob turned his watery eyes towards the empty wine bottle, beside which Fidelis now laid some money.

‘Pay for what we've had out of that, and get yourself another drink with what's left. I wish you good-night.'

 

Chapter Ten

R
ISING EARLY IN
the morning Fidelis wrote the letter to me that I have already transcribed. He asked about the postal service between Liverpool and Preston, and the landlord, taking possession of the letter, engaged to put it on the seven o'clock post-chaise, which would get it to its destination by ten-thirty.

There was no sign of Jacob Parkin, whom he presumed to be sleeping off the effects of the previous night's wine. Happy enough to leave the constable snoring, Fidelis went out, meaning to break his fast at Pinchbeck's Coffee House. But first he strolled to the bottom of Pool Lane to have a look at the celebrated Dock.

I have seen this remarkable feat of engineering for myself: a rectangular basin of deep water constructed in stone and invested by wharves and warehouses on three sides, with the Customs House on the fourth and a cleverly conceived floodgate, or rather lock, to allow ships to pass in from the estuary to discharge their cargoes, and out again to sea. Standing on the wharf, the dense array of uplifted masts and spars, with their webs of cordage and netting, made an impression like a ghostly leafless forest rising from the water through the morning mist. Ships were tied up alongside each other in twos and threes, and the business of loading and unloading was going on in a cacophony of rolling barrels, screeching blocks and the shouts and curses of the dock men.

A one-armed old seafarer sat on a bollard. As he puffed at his pipe, his eyes darting this way and that, he was taking in every activity on the dock. Fidelis approached and, seeing an opportunity, fell into conversation. Had there been a vessel called
The Fortunate Isle
here, he asked. The old man narrowed his eyes.

‘Oh aye, that one. She sailed last year – September, October. Guinea voyage they said. Not likely, I thought. I never saw an old ship so badly set for it.'

‘You mean she was not seaworthy?'

‘I'll not say that. Depends on the sea. But I will say that to my eye she wouldn't stand long in the deep ocean. No, Sir! I didn't like the look of her planks. The seas out there are murderous. The Guinea Trade is murderous, which no one in Liverpool knows better than me. Thirty years on snows and brigantines I was. For ten years I was pressed into the Navy. I was on a ship once when—'

‘That is an impressive career,' Fidelis interrupted, holding up his hand. He did not have the patience to listen to a string of yarns. ‘It is this particular ship that I want to know about, however –
The
Fortunate Isle
. Did you see her loaded? What cargo did she carry?'

Denied the chance to tell his life's history, the sailor shrugged and pouted.

‘I dunno that I saw her loaded.'

He knocked out his pipe against his knee, scattered the ash into the water, sent a gob of spit after it and said,

‘You'll spare an old man a fill of 'bacco, I suppose.'

Fidelis drew out his tobacco pouch, handed it over and, while the old man stuffed his pipe one-handed, asked as if by the way.

‘Would you as an old sea hand be so kind as to settle a matter that I have been arguing about? In which direction, pray, do the trade winds blow?'

*   *   *

Returning to Pinchbeck's Fidelis ordered coffee and toast and looked around him. The coffee house was even livelier than it had been on the previous evening. Men of business sat together with ship's officers at almost every table eating their breakfasts and poring over papers, charts and newspaper reports. At the other end of Fidelis's table three men were arguing amiably about the future price of tallow. A fourth man sat directly opposite him with creased brow, spectacles on his nose and an abacus and a bundle of papers before him. He was running his index finger down a column of figures while mouthing the numbers and pausing occasionally to flick the abacus beads across. Fidelis noticed that the base of the abacus bore a paper label with the name of Pinchbeck's on it. Every possible convenience of business, it seemed, was provided in this place.

During the time it took Fidelis to eat his toast, his counting neighbour completed and noted down the totals of figures on three sheets of paper. He had just picked up a fourth and was tilting it towards the light and peering at it when Fidelis leaned across and made a noisy clearance of his throat.

‘I am looking,' he said, ‘for the merchant Moreton Canavan. Is he present here and, if so, will you kindly point him out?'

With a degree of deliberation, the stranger laid down the paper, reset the abacus and, bending a little back in his chair, swivelled his head whilst peering over the rims of the spectacles.

‘Moreton Canavan,' he said returning to the perpendicular, and with a sigh of indifference, ‘is at the table beside the fireplace. He is the plumpest member of the company.'

Upon which his brow creased again and he returned to his calculations.

Looking across the room Fidelis saw that Mrs Butler's suitor was a florid, thickset fellow of about fifty, and that he was doing a good deal of laughing, and his companions were laughing, with a certain obsequiousness, along. Fidelis observed them carefully as he refilled and sipped from his coffee cup. Canavan did much of the talking, and appeared to be entertaining the others with tales, and also with opinions, for he heard the occasional shout of ‘Odds on it!' and ‘No word of a lie!'

Fidelis drained his cup. Rising and approaching the table, he coughed into his fist.

‘Do I have the honour of addressing Mr Moreton Canavan?' he asked.

Interrupted in his flow the older man darted a look upwards.

‘You do,' he replied. ‘Who are you?'

‘Fidelis, Doctor Fidelis.'

‘Clergyman or physician?'

‘The latter.'

‘I don't believe I've seen you in this Coffee House before, Sir.'

‘I came in here for the first time yesterday.'

‘That would explain it, for I rarely come here on the Sabbath.'

He gave a hearty laugh, as if he had said something funny, and lifted his cup of coffee to his mouth.

‘I wonder, do you know a gentleman named Moon – Zadok Moon?'

Canavan gave a kind of hiccup as he drank, as if the hot coffee had scalded his throat. As he slowly reunited the cup and the saucer, Fidelis watched his face change from vast good humour to sober seriousness.

‘I might know him,' he said cautiously. ‘Why do you ask?'

‘I would like him pointed out to me, if he is present. I have a letter for him.'

Canavan dabbed his lips with a napkin and seemed to make up his mind to something. He looked around.

‘He is over there, Sir.'

He pointed towards the most crowded part of the room, so that it was impossible to decide which individual Canavan had indicated. In a bustling way, the merchant jumped to his feet. He was tall and, though his coat was that of a gentleman, there was much of the boxing booth about his manner.

‘Allow me to fetch him to you here, Sir.'

He marched across the room and into the noisy throng, pushing between those that were standing until he reached a slight, dark-haired and bearded man who sat with a noisy company of breakfasters. At first Moon looked quite put-out, as if he did not want to break off from those he was with, even for a moment. But Canavan leaned down and spoke into his ear, whereupon Moon got up and consented to be guided across the room to where Fidelis was waiting, with my letter in his hand.

‘Mr Zadok Moon?' Fidelis asked.

‘Yes.'

Moon's eyes were evasive, glancing at Canavan but meeting Fidelis's glance only briefly.

‘I have the honour of delivering this letter to you from Preston.'

Moon took the letter and immediately, without so much as a glance, slipped it into the pocket of his coat.

‘Shall you not read it?'

Moon took a deep breath, as if gathering himself. Then he spoke in a more decided way.

‘I am obliged to you, Sir. But I am having my breakfast. I shall read it at my leisure.'

He gave a flourish with his hand and a bow.

‘Good day to you,' he said.

Moon turned and strode purposefully back towards his table. Fidelis followed his progress with his eyes, expecting to see him resume his seat at the breakfast table. It was a surprise therefore when Moon dodged past the table and, with a rapid glance over his shoulder, disappeared through a door beyond. My friend turned back to Canavan, but found that he, too, was nowhere to be seen.

*   *   *

Fidelis would have liked to stay a little longer in Liverpool. The identity of Moon, the coincidence of Canavan's engagement to Mrs Butler and now the appearance – at last! – of Zadok Moon had whetted his interest. He was like a fisherman studying the concentric ripple patterns made by rising fish. But the pond was still too muddy and, besides, there were patients in Preston to see. Leaving Pinchbeck's he walked thoughtfully back towards the inn where he had stabled his horse overnight.

He had strolled no more than a hundred yards in the direction of the Mermaid when the feeling grew on him that yet again there was someone behind him, tracking his footsteps. He quickened his pace. Had that foolish Jacob not heeded his advice? Was he still playing his game of shadows? He turned left towards the water, and then right along Old Hall Street. It was quieter here. He swung suddenly around and saw not Jacob, but a stout man of about his own age, puffing as he waddled along. He stood directly in the man's path and challenged him.

‘As far as I know, Sir,' he said, ‘you and I are strangers and yet you are following me.'

His stalker looked flustered. He produced a handkerchief, mopped his broad face and said:

‘I wanted a word. I am sorry to alarm you. I saw you conversing with Mr Moreton Canavan at Pinchbeck's, and then with another gentleman, you see, and it made me curious.'

‘Curious?'

‘To know you.'

‘Your name, Sir?'

‘I am Tybalt Jackson. And you, Sir?'

Fidelis did not answer but, looking Jackson over, went on with his own interrogation.

‘You are an associate of Mr Canavan?'

‘No. However, I have an interest in the other gentleman, if he is who I think he is.'

‘Who do you think he is?'

‘Someone with whom you do business.'

‘That is not how I would put it. But is my reason for speaking to this man any business of yours?'

‘If you were touching on his business then it is, for his business is very much my business. Were you doing so?'

‘We were not. However, I fail to see how it would be your business in any event.'

‘It would be my business, I do assure you.'

They were fencing with their questions, probing for advantage without conceding any. Both seemed to understand this at the same moment for each man now stood in silence staring at the other. Suddenly, changing his mind, Jackson touched his hat and said,

‘I regret that I have made a mistake, Sir. I bid you good day.'

He turned around and strode off. Fidelis watched him for a short time, then went on towards the Mermaid Inn, where he collected his bag and his horse and headed up the northern road, across what Liverpool people call the Dale, and northward to Preston.

Whether this Tybalt Jackson had executed a feint, and had in fact continued to shadow Luke Fidelis, is a debatable question. But there is no doubting that he would turn up in Preston a short time later, where his presence considerably complicated my investigation into the death of Phillip Pimbo. But that is to be told later.

 

Chapter Eleven

O
N THE MONDAY
afternoon I rode out again across the Preston Moor, intent on questioning John Barton at his stables at Peel Hall about Adam Thorn's seizure. Thorn, as far as I knew, was still lying on his bed silenced by paralysis, and there was nothing that could be learned from him. The horse-coper, on the other hand, had come across him in the throes of his seizure, and must have something more to tell of the circumstances. He might throw a glimmer of light on the mystery of the silver apostle spoon, and the whereabouts of any similar findings. But of more importance to me was that his testimony would be needed if Thorn should die.

The establishment where Barton plied his trade had been the old house's stable yard which, in the reign of Elizabeth, and on the whim of a Mrs Peel in whom proximity to straw provoked palpitations and asthma, had been removed half a mile away to the north of her dwelling. Barton had taken it over some years ago, firstly to buy and sell horses and, more latterly, to keep and train them for racing. There was a cottage in which Barton was accommodated but most of the premises consisted of two rows of horse boxes arranged opposite each other like a truncated street. A boy carrying a pitchfork of hay told me where I could find his master.