Where Seagulls Soar (28 page)

Pushing the door open, Fanny gave an ingratiating smile when one of them gazed up at her.

A few moments later Fanny was sipping a brandy they’d treated her to. One of them said, ‘How did you come by this ring, Mother Rushmore?’

‘It was a gift from my son Brian. He’s a good boy to his mother. Not like Leonard, who never comes to see me.’

The pair exchanged a glance. ‘Brian’s out of prison then, is he?’

‘He is that. They let him out because he didn’t commit any crime. A good boy is my Brian. Now, about the ring. I know solid gold when I see it. How much are you offering?’

‘Ten shilling,’ the older one said.

Indignantly, Fanny stared from one to another. ‘That’s daylight robbery.’

‘We’ll throw in a bottle of gin,’ the other said.

That was more like it. ‘Two bottles,’ she said.

‘You drive a hard bargain, Mother.’ The ring was replaced by a small pile of coins. Barnes the younger jerked his head towards the barman. ‘Tom, find two bottles of the special
gin for Mrs Rushmore. Good day to you, missus.’

When she got outside, Fanny quickly uncorked the bottle and took a long swallow. By Christ, it was potent stuff, especially after the brandy.

She started to walk, stopping every now and again to take a swig from the bottle. A cold and fitful wind sighed and moaned around the streets, carrying grit and dust before it.

Stopping in the shelter of a wall, she stared around her, disorientated. What was she doing here, when she lived in the fishermen’s cottages down at Chiswell with her husband and
children?

Fanny began to make her way down the hill, dragging her crippled leg behind her, singing quietly and tunelessly to herself.

Brian’s need for a woman grew stronger as he watched the two girls bustling about. If he had the cash on him he could buy one of the women who hung around the soldiers
– or he could take the pair in the Rushmore cottage for nothing. But there was an older man and woman living in the cottage, too, now. He couldn’t risk going in, not even for the stash
of cash he’d hidden there.

There was no sign of Joanna. For all he knew she could still be lying under the fishing nets, where he’d left her. But he hadn’t hit her hard enough to kill her, and she’d
still been breathing when he’d left. He reckoned she might have gone running off to London, as the man who was paying him to snatch her child had said she would. He’d be glad when he
could shed the responsibility of the boy, collect his pay and take off. He’d decided to go to America after he was paid. He’d heard that gold could be picked up in the streets
there.

Brian turned away. Going to the church he broke the lock to the back door and emptied the contents of the poor box into his pocket. Tilda lived nearby. She would have a kitchen garden where he
could pull some vegetables.

He watched his sister through the kitchen window for a while. She was better looking than he remembered. Dressed in a pretty pink gown with an apron over the top she ladled steaming stew and
dumplings on to plates, watched by a little girl. Brian’s mouth began to water and his stomach rumbled. Tilda had gained weight, he thought, and, as she turned away, he realized she had one
in the oven.

He briefly wondered about the little girl. Something about her reminded him of his sister, Mary Rushmore. She’d been a good-looking girl who’d attracted all the soldiers. But
Mary’s head had been screwed on, and she’d never have given her favours away.

‘Well, well,’ he said out loud, and wondered if Tilda’s husband knew that he and his dead brother had been under her skirt before him.

Tilda gazed up at the sound of his voice, as if she’d heard him. Her eyes narrowed to peer into the darkness beyond the window, and for a moment she seemed to look straight into his eyes.
Holding his breath, Brian stood very still.

Then a man came through from the other room; his arms came round her from behind and he kissed the back of her neck.

Brian moved away now Tilda was distracted, and when he looked again a curtain had been drawn over the window. He pulled a cabbage and some carrots from her garden and placed them in his sack.
Not too many, lest they be missed.

Tilda’s chickens began an agitated clucking as he neared the pen. He moved away from them so the noise wouldn’t alert her.

Instead, from a garden further up the road he plucked a rabbit from a hutch and bashed its head against a rock to kill it. Blood and brains splattered as it twitched in its death throes.

At Widow Hutton’s house Brian thumped on the front door. When the old lady, who was afflicted with rheumatism, began to rise painfully from her chair to open it, he nipped round the back.
The kitchen door was unlocked, so he helped himself to a jug of milk, half a loaf of bread and some eggs from her pantry.

Satisfied he had enough for their immediate needs, he started off back towards the cottage, keeping to the shadows. He hadn’t got far when he almost stumbled across his mother, who was
sprawled on her back in the shadow of a wall, snoring loudly.

‘You drunken slut,’ he snarled. ‘You’re supposed to be lookin’ after the kid. I should’ve known better.’ He picked up an empty gin bottle and flung it
over the wall into the cemetery, where it smashed against a headstone. He couldn’t carry her all the way back to the cottage. He’d have to come back for her with the wheelbarrow.

It was beginning to rain heavily. Putting his stolen goods down, Brian rolled his mother over the other side of the wall, where she was sheltered from the worst of it.

Twenty minutes later, he flung open the door to the cottage and set the jug of milk and the other fruits of his labours on the table.

The boy was asleep. His cheeks were flushed and he was breathing noisily through an open mouth. His hair was matted and wet with sweat. He stank something awful.

Brian hoped he wasn’t sick. That was all he needed.

Down at the Fortuneswell cemetery, Fanny rolled over. She didn’t feel or hear anything when she fell, not even her son calling her name.

She travelled six feet, landing in the mud at the bottom of the grave dug for the funeral of Jimmy Upton, who’d died at the ripe old age of seventy-two, leaving a goodly amount of cash and
several nice properties to be distributed as his will dictated.

Jimmy had fathered nineteen children, ten on his wife and the other nine on his several mistresses.

Rivulets of water were eroding the piles of earth heaped each side of the yawning grave, and mud had begun to slide into the hole. Fanny’s mouth automatically fell open when her nose
became blocked. The mud quickly filled the space she made for it, preventing the passage of any more breath.

Fanny couldn’t open her good eye, but she felt the wetness and wondered mildly where she was. She couldn’t be bothered to struggle so she didn’t wonder for long.

The next morning, Jimmy Upton’s coffin was lowered into the hole, pressing Fanny further into the mud.

‘He was good man and a good father,’ one of his women muttered – a sentiment echoed by several of the other women and many of his children.

‘May God accept him into heaven,’ the Reverend David Lind said.

Jimmy’s wife stared challengingly at the reverend and stated caustically, ‘May the devil take him, for all I care, for the wicked auld bugger was only good for one thing, and that
was lying on top of one woman or another.’

Seth wore an immaculate evening suit with a cutaway jacket over a waistcoat of blue silk that matched his cuffs and revers.

Because it had been drizzling and was wet underfoot, he tugged on a pair of boots, adjusting them around his calves under the narrow legs of his trousers. He wore a small pistol in a shoulder
holster under his jacket.

Kate, in her nightgown and robe, and with her hair twisted into rags, an action which Seth had been led to understand would supply an abundance of feminine ringlets, inspected him critically
before she smiled. ‘You look pretty tonight.’

Seth grinned at the thought. ‘Only ladies look pretty. Gentlemen look handsome.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know why. They just do. Aren’t you supposed to be in bed, my love?’

‘I’m not tired yet. Where did Joanna go? Are you going to see her?’

‘She was invited to stay with another family for a day or two. I hope to see her tonight.’

‘She’s pretty, isn’t she?’

Kate had a smitten look on her face, and Seth took her hands in his. ‘She certainly is. You like Joanna a lot, don’t you, my love?’

‘Oh yes. I love her and she loves me,’ Kate said with a sudden enthusiasm.

He didn’t want Kate to get hurt. ‘Did she tell you that?’

‘Nearly. She said if she ever had a daughter to love she’d want one just like me. Have you found Toby for her yet?’

‘No, but I think I know where he is.’

‘Joanna said if you wish for things hard enough, sometimes the wishes come true. Tell her I’m wishing hard for Toby to be found. Where do you think he is, Uncle Seth?’

‘I think he’s being held prisoner on the island where she lives. So if I go away again, that’s where I’ll be. Looking for Toby.’

‘Will Joanna be with you?’

He intended to persuade Durrington to hand her over, one way or another. He gave a faint smile. ‘I certainly hope so.’

Kate got to the point of the conversation then. ‘If you married Joanna she could be my mother, then I’d have somebody to love when you’re away, and Toby to play with, as
well.’

Seth held Kate close for a few precious seconds. He hadn’t thought that she might be lonely. ‘You’d better put it on your wish list then, Kate. Now, off you go to bed before
your governess comes looking for you and grumbles at me.’

Her eyelids began to droop as she slid her arms around his neck and laid her head on his shoulder. ‘Tuck me into bed and tell me a story.’

A few minutes later Kate was fast asleep. He gently touched her cheek, marvelling at the flawless perfection of her skin. Love for her flowed through him in a way that robbed him of breath.

He’d seen children of Kate’s age begging on the streets, as thin, nervous and pinch-faced as grey mice. Where did they end up? he wondered. Working as dips, or in brothels from an
early age, perhaps. The boys would be sent down the sewers to clean the pipes, sometimes dying down there, their lungs filling with poisonous gas, if diseases such as cholera didn’t kill them
first.

Kate would never have to suffer like that, despite the unfortunate circumstances of her birth. Joanna was right. He should take her abroad to grow up, where nobody knew of her background.

The anger he’d felt over Joanna’s hasty action dissipated, leaving the ashes of shame in its wake. He should have seen it straight away – should have understood how frantic she
felt about losing her son. She’d be worried beyond reason – beyond thought of her own safety. Joanna would do anything to get Toby back. He wondered what humiliation Durrington was
putting her through, and how the hell she was holding herself together.

Gently, he kissed Kate’s cheek, then nodding to her governess made his way to the hall. He took an umbrella from the stand, one with a blade in the handle, hoping he wouldn’t need to
use it. He disliked violence, but he’d drive it through Durrington’s heart to save Joanna from further grief.

Durrington’s windows spilled light across the wet road. Opposite the house was a small park. Seth’s glance searched the shadows of the foliage for signs of Bart Seager. The rustle of
a branch brought a nod from him. Bart was well concealed.

Seth was shown into the drawing room, where a small party was assembled. There was his brother Barnard and Mrs Charsford, and Durrington. Constance looked pale, and a bruise disappeared under
her hairline. Her wrist was supported by a bandage.

‘A slight sprain, but I can still use it.’ Constance answered his enquiry politely, but her eyes flickered towards Barnard.

His half-brother was showing signs of strain. He had a fixed smile on his face, as though he were there under sufferance, and he talked in a high-pitched voice. Could he be having second
thoughts about the situation? Seth wondered.

Of Joanna and Bisley there was no sign, and Seth was sorely tempted to rattle Durrington’s teeth from his head. But he couldn’t do anything to place Joanna in danger, and would have
to see the game through to the end if he was going to win it.

‘I understood Joanna Morcant was to be present,’ he said quietly to his host.

Durrington offered him an amused smile. ‘An altogether charming and spirited young woman, who affords me hours of amusement. Joanna is resting, and will put in an appearance at dinner. She
will be seated between myself and Bisley. But I’ve given instructions that you be placed opposite her, so you can converse in comfort. No doubt you and the Charsfords will provide an
appreciative audience.’

Durrington had designed the evening to be playacted, then, with Joanna in the lead role. Seth wondered what Durrington had planned for the ending. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

‘I would prefer to speak to her privately, first.’

‘No doubt you would, Mr Adams. Unfortunately, that’s not Joanna’s wish. You must wait until she makes her entrance.’

Not by the flicker of an eyelid did Seth divulge the frustration and fury he was feeling. He merely nodded and turned to examine a painting of a nude woman on the wall.

It was a long wait, but shortly after the four of them had seated themselves at the table Bisley came in, leading Joanna.

Constance Charsford’s gasp was audible to everyone.

Joanna was wearing a scarlet gown, one cut so low over the bosom that it was almost indecent. Rouge splotched her cheeks and her mouth was smeared with it, giving her a clownish appearance.
Under the thick layer of white cosmetic powdering, many bruises were visible, as though she’d been pinched and punched repeatedly. Her hair was hanging loose, covering burns from a rope which
had been tied around her neck. Rope burns could also be seen on her wrists.

‘Joanna,’ Seth whispered, his heart going out to her, for she moved as if she were in a daze, sitting opposite him when she was told to.