The Blighted Cliffs (12 page)

'Just
joined
Orestes
,
have you?' he asked quietly.

'That's
right, sir.'

'How
do you find Lieutenant Crawley?'

'Well
enough, sir.' I was on my guard - pealing officers to their superiors
was ever a sure way to find trouble. 'Are you acquainted?'

'We
are,' he said, arching his eyebrows significantly. 'We were prisoners
together, at Verdun, a year or so back.'

'I
had no idea...'

'I
only mention it,' continued Davenant, 'because during our time there,
before we were both exchanged, there were rumours.' He shot me a
sideways glance.

'Do
you mean... ?'

'Nothing
was ever discovered, of course,' he said smoothly. 'But ... Has
Captain Crawley ever explained to you how he came to be stationed
here in Dover?'

I
shook my head.

'I
shall say no more, then.' He straightened. 'A pleasure to make your
acquaintance, Lieutenant Jerrold. I trust that I shall be seeing, and
hearing, much more of you.'

'The
honour will be mine,' I said gravely, for I can match any man's
humbug. But I was intrigued by his words, for there must be something
to them. Surely he did not abuse his junior out of pure malice.

I
saw Crawle
y
exiting the door and, making my excuses to the company, I joined him
on the stairs. We walked in silence, he lost in thought, I too
confused to say anything after Davenant's mysterious confidence. The
night was cold, and the storm seemed to have blown itself away, for a
few stars shone dimly above us.

'Heading
back to your inn, are you?' asked Crawley as we passed the gate. It
was as well I was with him, for I would never have found it on my
own.

'Actually,
sir, I have a few more enquiries to make.'

'Hmm.'
Crawley considered it. 'Well, Lieutenant, as long as you make the
quay by half past eight o'clock tomorrow morning. It will be a long
day, and a long night, too. Particularly if Sir Lawrence's
intelligence proves to be of its habitual standard.'

'Yes,
sir.'

'So
you had better go and find out what you can about your dead body
while you have the chance.'

Of
course, I hadn't the least intention of investigating 'my' dead body,
not at that hour. I had done enough for the day, and besides, where
could I have gone? I doubted the coroner would thank me for arriving
at his door for a discussion of the man's injuries. No; I did have
enquiries to make, but they were of an entirely personal nature that
was no concern of Crawley's. Mad though she had been, the image of
Lady Cunningham in her gauzy dress had fixed itself in my thoughts
and aroused a hunger I was determined to satisfy before the night was
done. Returning to finish my business at Sir Lawrence's house was out
of the question, of course, so instead I made my way down the steep
hill and into the town where, after a few mis-steps, I found myself
outside the
Crown
and Anchor
.

It
seemed quieter than the last time I had been there, though that was
only an impression: my memory of the occasion was far from perfect.
But I was able to push my way to the bar without too much jostling,
and needed only a couple of minutes to snare the landlord's
attention.

'Excuse
me,' I shouted over the din, 'I'm looking for a girl called Isobel.'

He
cupped his hand behind a hairy ear. 'Wassat? Don't sell no drink
called Isobel.'

'Not
a drink, a girl,' I bellowed, before I caught his meaning. 'Ah, I
see. A brandy.'

He
looked at me suspiciously. 'You that navy man?' he asked.

With
my instant notoriety in a town the size of Dover, a lie would have
been futile. 'Yes, I am.'

'No
brandy.'

'Wine?'

He
considered it. 'All right. Portuguese, though.'

It
might have been Portuguese, or it might have been Chinese for all I
knew; certainly it was barely drinkable. But with my coin across the
counter, I could resume my enquiry.

'She
ain't here. Sometimes she is, but not now.'

Somehow
I managed to drain my glass and bang it on the counter. He refilled
it, and again I paid his exorbitant fee. Much more of this, I
thought, and I would be in no state to enjoy Isobel's company again.

'So
where can I find her?' I tried to keep my voice sober, for if the
landlord thought I was losing my senses he would prevaricate all
night, until I was well into my cups.

He
squinted at me. I had finished my drink, but this time I held the
empty glass and stared calmly back. You'll get no more from me
tonight, my expression said. Even the pleasures of Isobel could
hardly be worth a third serving of his rot.

'She
lives with the 'ores, down on the woolcombers' street, off the castle
road,' he said, giving up. 'Though she ain't what you think.'

'My
thoughts are my own business,' I retorted stiffly, though his words
had surprised me after her vehement denials. I threw him a final
coin. 'No, thank you - you can have that for nothing.'

I
knew where the castle road was for I had just come down it, though it
took me longer to retrace my steps when I had to pause at every
turning and alleyway to see if it might be the woolcombers' street.
None was, or at least none was announced as such, and at length I
found myself at the very end of the road, where the path began to
wind up to the castle. Ahead of me loomed an imposing stone church,
of which I could see little beyond its gaping arches. But there
seemed to be a figure with a light in its yard and so, letting myself
through the iron gate, I approached.

'Hallo?'
I hailed him, but no answer came. I tried again, but again silence.
Nor did he even move. I grew suspicious, and moved around to see his
face better, weaving my way between the slanting headstones with
mounting apprehension.

'Idiot,'
I chided myself, for I saw instantly my mistake, and stepped forward
to look closer. From the front it was obvious: this was no man, but a
statue, made to a full size and with a lit lantern in his left hand.
He stood, carved in white marble atop a low plinth, his back slightly
bent and his arms spread open, reaching forward over me. Doubtless it
was intended to be benevolent, but in the dark, and looming from his
pedestal, it gave the unsettling impression that he was about to
swoop down and grab me about the neck. It was the only such monument
in the churchyard - the rest were far more modest - and it was
clearly new, for it had yet to be disfigured by moss or weather. I
leaned closer to read the inscription, to see who this exalted,
conceited paragon had been.

'Caleb
Drake.'

At
the shock of hearing the words spoken suddenly aloud I shuddered; for
a fleeting instant I thought the statue had come to life and would
indeed fall upon me with the terrible vengeance of the dead. Then I
realized that the voice had come from behind me and, still trembling,
I turned.

'Did
I startle ye?'

Even
if he hadn't, his appearance was hardly reassuring. The long black
robe of a priest hung off his gaunt figure, and thin white hair grew
wild around his bald head. He carried a lantern, but it did little to
illuminate the hollows of his face. He spoke in a high-pitched
whisper.

'Yes,'
I said, ill-temperedly, my blood still pounding. 'You did.'

'I
apologize,' he croaked. 'I'd only come to trim his wick.'

I
looked up to where the lamp glowed over my head. 'It must be a
troublesome memorial to need such maintenance.'

The
priest shrugged a bony shoulder. 'The estate provides for a candle to
be lit every night.'

'Why
the candle?' Despite my anger with the man, I was intrigued.

'After
the fashion of Saint Christopher,' explained the priest. 'In
remembrance of all the ships he helped ashore.'

My
mind was clearing from the shock, and remembering what Crawley had
said about this Caleb Drake I guessed he had not been the town's
pilot.

'I
heard Caleb Drake was a notorious criminal.'

The
priest lifted a finger to his lips. 'It is unwise to speak ill of the
dead,' he admonished me. 'Particularly on holy ground, and when they
are but a few months in their grave.'

'Still,
a rather fine grave for a criminal.'

'For
all his wickedness, he was a much loved man. You see?' He pointed to
the lettering on the tomb. Underneath the name were the words:
'Dedicated to his memory by his loving brother, and all who knew him.
MDCCCV.'

'He
had a brother?'

'Indeed.
But he has not been to Dover these many years. He lives in the
Indies.'

I
wondered whether he lived there of his own accord, or at the King's
pleasure. 'But he returned to erect the memorial?'

'He
sent the money through his banker. Mr Mazard made all the
arrangements.'

'Still,'
I pressed, 'I marvel that he was given a place in the churchyard.'

'Where
better? Was not our Lord himself hanged as a criminal, among
criminals? And did he not come into the world to save sinners? "Joy
shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over
ninety and nine just persons." And Drake was repentant, before
they hanged him.'

No
doubt: the noose must have made more converts in its time than ever
the cross did. But this was becoming rather more relevant to my own
predicament than I found comfortable. I returned to my original
purpose.

'I
wonder if you might help me. I am trying to reach the woolcombers'
street.'

'If
ye leave by the gate and turn left, ye'll find it the first road on
your right.'

'Thank
you.' A fresh thought struck me. 'And I wonder, do you know ... which
is to say, are you aware...' I tried to phrase this without causing
offence. 'Do you know of a girl named Isobel who lives on that
street?'

'Indeed
I do,' he said, with unexpected vigour. 'I attend there often myself.
A very worthy establishment. The things those fallen women do are
quite remarkable.'

If
his attitude to Caleb Drake had puzzled me, this positively stunned
me. Not that I'd never heard of a priest who strayed, far from it,
but one who was so shameless in his debauchery? He must have had a
martyr's faith in God's enduring mercy.

He
clearly read the look on my face. 'Some in my congregation think me
odd, you know, but I draw my strength from the Bible.' A hitherto
undiscovered chapter, I could only presume. 'After all, did not
Christ himself consort with the harlot, and wash her feet with his
own sacred hair?'