A Man of No Country Page 16

  ‘You really must leave now, Lady Emma,’ he said quietly, his voice harsh with lust. ‘I bid you a good night.’

  But she showed no signs of going and instead continued to stand in front of him. Her shoulders trembled a little and then began to shake. The moon slid from behind a cloud and glistened on the tears that ran down her cheeks. He took a step forward, drawn to comfort her, but then he stopped, frightened as to where any close contact between their bodies might lead.

  ‘Does she love you a great deal?’ she sobbed.

  ‘My wife?’ he said. ‘Yes, Lady Emma, I believe that she does. She waited a long time for me when we were apart, and she went against the opposition of her family to marry me.’

  ‘And how does that feel?’ she asked. ‘To love and be loved in return?’

  ‘Oh, Lady Emma, it is quite the most wonderful thing, which is why I cannot place it in hazard. You really should go, before you are discovered.’ His hand took her arm and he tried to ease her towards the door, but she shook him off.

  ‘Do you know that I have been the plaything of men since I was little more than a child?’ she sobbed. ‘An artist’s model, then an actress and finally a mistress. Handed from man to man to be used and then discarded. But all I have ever wanted is to be loved and cherished. Is that so much to ask?’

  ‘No, it is not, but surely it is to your husband that you must look for such affection?’

  ‘Sweet, old Sir William?’ she scoffed. ‘Really? Do you know that he arranged to take me off the hands of my last lover, the so called Honourable Charles Grenville, without any prior discussion with me? I thought that Charles loved me, but when his fortune ran low, he needed a lucrative match. My presence threatened that, so I was tossed across to Sir William as if I were a discarded coat.’

  ‘I have seen how he looks at you, Lady Emma. In his own way I believe he does admire you.’

  ‘Doubtless he does, as a master is fond of a favoured hound. I need so much more!’

  ‘Then you will need to find it elsewhere,’ said Clay. ‘I will gladly offer you my friendship and what protection I can, but as for my love I must reserve that for Lydia.’

  ‘Friendship!’ she exclaimed. ‘What possible use is that to me?’ She turned on her heels and stormed out of the room.

  *****

  Sunday morning in Naples, and the bells of her numberless churches clanged out over the terracotta roofs as they summoned the faithful to mass. At the altar of one of the city’s more popular churches, the Basilica of San Lorenzo Maggiore, Father Massimo looked up from his preparations to peer through the wisps of incense that trailed like gun smoke across the body of the church. In the lines of pews there were perhaps a dozen elderly widows, black as crows, but of his normal congregation he could see little sign. He walked towards the church entrance, a puzzled frown on his forehead. The doors stood open, wide and inviting, just as they did every Sunday. He peered outside as he searched for his missing parishioners. The sky above his head was blue and cloudless, the empty square already warm in the sunshine. From high above his head the clamour of the bells rang out across the district. All was as it should be, he thought. He turned in frustration and waved over one of his assistants.

  ‘Andrea!’ he called. ‘Has the plague returned, or are the Turks attacking the city?’

  ‘I don’t believe so, Father, not that I have heard,’ said the altar boy.

  ‘Well, where is everyone then?’ asked the priest. ‘The church is almost empty!’

  Father Massimo’s congregation, along with those of most of Naples’ other churches, had taken to the water. The more well-to-do had found places on the decks of the moored merchantmen that chanced to be in the bay that Sunday. The rest were packed into fishing boats, rowing boats, leisure craft, skiffs and little vessels of every kind. Their brightly painted hulls contrasted with the blue water of the bay beneath the cloudless sky. Every boat was packed with sightseers, eager for a closer look at the huge warships that had appeared during the night.

  There were fifteen of them in total, moored in a long, evenly spaced line out in the deeper water. At one end was the Titan, a familiar sight now to the locals. Yesterday morning she had been comfortably the largest ship in the bay, but that was no longer true. She had been joined by the newly restored Vanguard, the Orion and the Alexander, and a further eleven seventy-fours. It was the largest fleet that had been seen in Naples in living memory, and no one wanted to miss the sight. The little boats with their chattering cargos sailed between and around the huge ships, like birds amongst a herd of bison.

  On board the Titan, the call had gone up for all hands to muster for divisions. Throughout the lower deck men sat in front of their tie mates to have their wild, uncut hair plaited into respectable pigtails and secured with coloured ribbon. Elsewhere, others sailors struggled into their best clothes, urged on by the shouts of the boatswain’s mates. Farther aft, in the wardroom, the officers pulled on full dress uniform coats and buckled on swords, while their servants gave their best cocked hats a final brush. Macpherson wound his scarlet officer’s sash around his waist, and tied a knot by his side. He glanced up and caught Taylor looking at him. He gave the tiniest of nods, in response to the first lieutenant’s raised eye brow.

  On the quarter deck the marines were being inspected by their sergeant in the bright sunshine. He marched along the ranks, while his eyes darted from side to side and up and down each man he came to. He paused from time to time as he flicked at some imagined dust here, or frowned at a poorly polished button there. A deck below where the marines stood, Clay settled his best china silk neck cloth into place, before turning to slip on the heavy broadcloth coat that his servant Yates held out for him. He pulled it straight, picked up his copy of the Articles of War, and accepted his best cocked hat from the boy, who had now moved to stand by the door. He ducked out of the cabin and walked onto the main deck. He could see that the crew were already assembled in the blocks of their various divisions, out on the deck in front of him. He looked briefly over their massed ranks to check that all was well, and then quickly ran up the companion ladder and onto the quarterdeck. Around him were his officers, touching their hats at his appearance, while the marines at the back of the deck presented arms with a sound of hands slapping against muskets.

  ‘Are all the men present and correct, Mr Taylor?’ asked Clay.

  ‘Eh, actually no, sir,’ replied the first lieutenant. ‘We are deficient by one man. Daniel Oates, landsman in the larboard watch, cannot be found.’

  ‘Oates?’ asked the captain. ‘Was he not one of the new volunteers that joined the ship at the start of the voyage?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, sir,’ said Taylor. ‘He was a rather indifferent hand. Altogether too scrawny for much to be made of him, so he is no great loss to the ship. I imagine he must have deserted in one of these wretched shore boats that are all around us. I have done my best to keep them away, but they will persist in returning.’ Clay glanced over the rail, straight down into a large skiff that had come alongside. A family of chattering Italians enjoyed a picnic in the centre of the boat. The man at the tiller raised his hat to the two officers.

  ‘Shall I drop an eighteen-pounder ball into her, sir?’ growled the lieutenant. ‘From this height it should go clean through. That might answer to make the others keep their distance.’

  ‘Best not,’ smiled his captain. ‘We have need of Neapolitan goodwill if we are to use their city as a base. Are all the arrangements in place?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Mr Macpherson and his men are ready to conduct the search when you give the order.’ Clay looked towards the Titan’s Scottish marine officer, who touched his hat in response.

  ‘Very well, Mr Taylor, let me first address the men.’ Clay strode forward to the quarterdeck rail and looked down on the crew. A sea of faces looked back at him. He paused for a moment to gather his thoughts, and then began to speak.

  ‘Men, this morning there will be no divine service,’ he began. ‘
Nor shall I read through the entirety of the Articles of War to remind you of your duty to this ship.’ Faces turned towards each other in surprise and a few mutters of talk swept the deck, quickly silenced by the petty officers. ‘Instead I want to read a single Article, number twenty-nine, which states that All robbery committed by any person in the fleet, shall be punished with death, or otherwise, as a court martial, upon consideration of the circumstances, shall find meet.’ In the silence that followed he closed his copy of the Articles of War and returned it to his pocket.

  ‘You all know of what I speak,’ he said. ‘We have a cutpurse amongst us. A ne’er do well who preys on his own shipmates. I am quite determined to find this despicable man and put a stop to his antics. If any of you know who this person is, I ask you to step forward now.’ His eye travelled over the impassive crew. No one moved. ‘Very well, then every man is to stay in his place, while Lieutenant Macpherson and his marines conduct a thorough search of the ship. Carry on if you please, Mr Taylor.’

  While the marines clumped down the ladder way to begin the search, Clay stood at the rail and watched the crew. He scanned their faces and looked for any clues as to who the thief might be. Did anyone look nervous, he wondered? He picked out Grainger’s lean, bearded face, a comfortable half-head taller than those around him, but no flicker of emotion passed across his features. Up through the main grating came the sound of barked orders and booted feet. Clay moved his gaze on, till he came to rest for a moment on Murphy in the afterguard. His face flushed red as he realised he was under scrutiny. Was that guilt, thought Clay to himself, before he remembered that the young Irishman always blushed at the slightest attention. He moved on to look at some of the other faces. From deep under his feet more noises drifted up as the search progressed.

  It was half an hour later that the figure of Taylor appeared at his shoulder. He turned to face the grey-haired lieutenant.

  ‘Well, Mr Taylor, have you found our thief’s ill-gotten hoard?’ he asked. The first lieutenant shook his head.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘The marines have found no accumulations of money of a suspicious nature. But they have found Daniel Oates. I am afraid that he is dead.’

  ‘Dead!’ exclaimed Clay. ‘Where did they find him?’

  ‘His body was hidden in the gap behind the boatswain’s store on the orlop deck.’

  ‘Was it an accident?’

  ‘I very much doubt it, sir,’ said Taylor. ‘His throat has been cut from one ear to the other.’

  Chapter 10

  Malta

  Lieutenant Thomas Macpherson of the Royal Marines had managed to spread himself across all of the chairs that lined the starboard side of the wardroom table. His body was in his usual seat, close to the back of the cabin, with a second beneath his knees and a third positioned under his feet. His uniform jacket was hung up in his nearby cabin, his neck cloth had been unwound and his white linen shirt had its top two buttons undone to reveal a few curls of black chest hair. By his elbow, on the table was a large glass of watered wine. With a sigh of contentment he picked up the slim leather bound volume, flipped open the cover and began to read. A few moments later a shadow fell on the page.

  ‘The Bramptons of Linstead Hall. A novel in three volumes by a Lady,’ read Lieutenant Blake as he leant across the Scotsman’s shoulder. ‘Would the lady in question be Miss Clay, the captain’s younger sister, by any chance, Tom?’

  ‘Aye, that is correct,’ he said, moving the page back into the light. ‘Although that is not known to society in general, which is the chief point of an anonymous work.’

  ‘An anonymous publication,’ marveled the young lieutenant. ‘I have heard of such things, but only by reputation. Is it of a particularly salacious character then?’

  ‘That is not immediately apparent from the title page, which is as far as I have been permitted to read uninterrupted,’ said the marine. He turned in his chair to favour the younger man with a withering glance. Instead his dark eye brows shot up in surprise. ‘Good gracious, John, what are you wearing? You look as if you are about to go forth and thresh corn.’

  Blake was indeed a curious sight. His normal lieutenant’s uniform was visible no higher than his knees. Above this he had a voluminous smock of rough linen, spotted with paint of various colours, a bright red kerchief tied about his neck, and a large straw hat whose tattered brim spread wide on both sides. By way of explanation he pointed towards the wardroom door, where he had left his paint box, a folded easel and a large canvas.

  ‘I have been busy painting ashore,’ he announced. ‘Oh, but what an agreeable subject I have found!’

  ‘So I can see,’ said Macpherson. ‘You do know that both of your hands are blue?’

  ‘No matter!’ said the artist, wiping some of the paint onto the smock. ‘I took a boat over to that headland close to the Hamilton’s place, first thing this morning. Do you know that from there one can view the whole sweep of the bay with considerable advantage? The blue of the sea and sky, the red roofs of Naples, the volcano that looms over all, and our magnificent fleet laid out in a single rank. I do hope I have been able to do it justice.’

  ‘Might I see the work?’ asked Macpherson, putting down the book.

  ‘Heavens, no,’ said the artist. ‘It is barely started. No, it shall need many more hours of labour before it is fit to be seen. I hope to return to the same spot tomorrow and continue.’

  ‘Goodness, John, what on earth are you wearing?’ asked Charles Faulkner, the Titan’s elegant purser, as he came into the wardroom. ‘You could pass for one of the labourers on my father’s estate.’

  ‘Almost my very words,’ said Macpherson, with satisfaction. ‘Young Mr Blake has been capturing the image of our fleet at anchor in the Bay of Naples.’

  ‘Ah, that will account for the wooden device I almost fell over as I came through the door,’ said the purser. ‘Might I trouble you for a place to sit, Tom?’ The marine surrendered one of his three chairs with a sigh, and Faulkner joined him at the table. ‘Tell me, John, while you sweated away like Michelangelo in a passion, did you chance to notice that all the captains in the fleet were being ferried over to a reception, hosted by our ambassador?’

  ‘I believe I may have done,’ said Blake. ‘There was certainly a deal of boat traffic around a little jetty, close to the spot I had chosen to place my easel.’

  ‘Apparently it was quite an affair,’ said Faulkner. ‘I chanced to see the admiral’s flag lieutenant afterwards, he is an old acquaintance of mine, and he said he had never seen such an amount of gold braid. All our captains were there, the admiral too of course, along with masses of gorgeously attired Neapolitan naval officers. Every man jack of them was either a commodore or an admiral, and this in a navy with nothing larger than a sloop! My friend reports that most of them have never been to sea, and are just on the active list so they can draw a stipend. It was hosted by Sir William and his very handsome young wife.’

  ‘I had heard that Lady Emma can be very, ah...accommodating where naval officers were concerned,’ said Macpherson.

  ‘She does have that questionable reputation, don’t she?’ said Faulkner. ‘So you might imagine that our Pipe would be a figure of considerable interest to her? I can’t speak for the Dagos, but he is surely favoured with the most agreeable countenance and figure amongst our captains.’

  ‘He is certainly the youngest,’ agreed Blake. ‘Did she make a play for him then?’

  ‘She did not,’ reported the purser. He folded his arms in satisfaction. ‘She cut him quite dead, and singled out Admiral Nelson from the whole company for her particular attention. Now what do you make of that?’

  ‘That she isn’t partial to tall men with chestnut hair?’ suggested Blake.

  ‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed Faulkner. ‘A lady with her supposed appetites showing a preference for a dwarf with half his limbs missing? What rot! No, our Pipe has spent two nights at the Hamilton’s residence over the past few months, and I know how to
recognise a lover’s quarrel when I see one. There ain’t no smoke without a blaze, gentlemen. You mark my words.’ He picked up the discarded book from the table top. ‘The Bramptons of Linstead Hall,’ he read. ‘Is it a tolerable read, Tom?’

  ‘I can confirm that the title page is well composed. Beyond that I have yet to venture.’

  ‘Goodness, but you must have retired down here a good half an hour ago to peruse it. What an indifferent reader you are.’

  The wardroom door opened before the marine was able to defend himself, and in came the stooped figure of Richard Corbett, the Titan’s surgeon. He was a small man in his late thirties with thin, sandy hair and pale blue eyes.

  ‘And there I was thinking that no officer could have more diverting hands than Lieutenant Blake,’ said Macpherson, indicating the surgeon’s arms, soiled brown with dried blood up to the elbows. ‘What have you been about, Richard? I doubt if Blue Beard himself can have been filthier.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Corbett. He paused to examine his hands. ‘I have not had occasion to wash them yet.’

  ‘But what have you been doing, man?’ demanded Faulkner.

  ‘‘I have conducted an examination of the cadaver of the unfortunate Daniel Oates, in the hope of discovering some intelligence to offer the master at arms. First all these thefts, and now a killing. The poor man is quite at his wits’ end as to who could have committed these crimes.’

  ‘Have you come to any conclusions from the body, Richard?’ asked Faulkner. The surgeon wiped his hands on his handkerchief and sat down to join the others.

  ‘I can say with a degree of certainty that the body had lain on the orlop deck for no more than one or two days. On the one hand it was fully stiffened by the rigor mortis, while on the other natural putrefaction had yet to have begun in earnest.’