The Poisoned Island (23 page)

Captain Hopkins of the
Solander
strikes him as a man cut from similar lengths of robust but elegant sailcloth as Willowhead. He has a direct and unaffected way of dealing with other men, the consequence of an absence of fear but also the presence of respect. A third man Horton knew had that quality: Richard Parker, leader of the mutineers on the Nore in 1797, only two years after Horton had left the
Apollo
. If Willowhead had been his mentor, Parker had accidentally become his haunted inspiration. But Parker’s quest for fairness
and humanity in the Navy’s dealings with its men ended with him hanging from a yardarm off Sheerness, and Horton in hiding from his shipmates, his future with Abigail bought with the betrayal of his fellow-mutineers.

Willowhead would not have done such a thing.
This he has said to himself a dozen times a day for fifteen years.

Willowhead never had to
, Abigail would respond.

Horton and Hopkins are seated in the Narwhal, each enjoying a pint of half-decent ale. Hopkins is angry but is trying not to show it. They are discussing the incarceration of Nott.

“You removed him from my ship without informing me, Constable.”

“We did, indeed. But there is no requirement upon the magistrate to seek permission from you, Captain. And he was not on your ship at the time.”

“No
legal
requirement, Constable. But a moral one, perhaps. You understand how it is on a ship.”

“I do, Captain.”

Horton is wary of this conversation. He half suspects Hopkins of trying to open a fissure between the constable and the magistrate.

“And it is necessary to keep him at Coldbath Fields?”

“For now. He is not cooperating. I am hoping you may be able to persuade him to tell us why he was visiting Attlee and Arnott.”

“Can a man not visit his shipmates?”

“Has he visited any others?”

“Not to my knowledge. He’s barely left the ship since we arrived.”

“Indeed? And why was he on board?”

“We needed a chaplain. Ours was taken ill before we even left London, and I had no chance to replace him for the outward
track. Nott volunteered his services. The boy was keen to come to England.”

“Why?”

“I think no particular reason. His father is a man of some standing on the island.”

“A missionary?”

“
The
missionary. Most of his fellows have fled; the internal civil struggles on the island have become vicious in recent years. The missionaries were well established, but the king has been struggling with rebels for years. He wasn’t even on the island when we arrived; he’d removed himself to Moorea. I was worried about the unrest, but we had a pretty quiet time of it. The rebels subscribe to the old savage religion, and had made various threats towards the missionaries. Most of them fled to New Holland. Henry Nott, the boy’s father, stayed. He is a remarkable man, but unyielding in his faith. Such unyielding men, in my experience, do not end well.”

“So the son is a half-breed?”

“Yes. His mother is an Indian.”

“The missionaries take wives?”

“Evidently. Though I imagine it was all very proper. No messing about in tents for Nott.”

Not like Sir Joseph Banks, you mean.

“The son seems to be of a somewhat odd nature.”

“Yes, he does. We were told by some of the locals to leave him behind. They seemed suspicious of him. I think he’s a rather pathetic case, Constable. And any ‘oddness’ he may be evincing will doubtless be partly rooted in his recent history. He traveled halfway round the world on his first ever sea voyage, and within days of arrival is locked up in a place which has the general reputation of being a shelter for vicious
warders and corrupt magistrates. I’m surprised the lad hasn’t done himself a mischief.”

“You mean taken his life?”

“Oh, for the love of Christ, Horton. It’s only a manner of speaking. I mean he is by no means a solid character, certainly, and you’d better be damned sure he’s watched. I gave personal assurances to his father for his safety. I’m not a man who likes to give unmet promises. The boy looked like he was losing his mind.”

“You visited him?”

“Of course I bloody visited him! What decent captain would not? This morning.”

“How is he to return to Otaheite?”

“There are a great many vessels going that way just now. The French are sniffing round the island. They’ve got some idea that the current civil strife may give them an opportunity to move in. So we’re sending men and supplies all the time. I’ll get Nott back there. Once you release him, of course.”

“And assuming he is not guilty of the killings.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Horton. He didn’t kill anybody.”

Hopkins is furious, that much is obvious, but the fury is a cold one which he seems to be controlling. He speaks to Horton with the familiarity and respect of equals, which is generous of him, given they are by no means such.

“Tell me about the two dead men, if you please.”

“Very different to Sam Ransome. Hardworking men, the two of them. Attlee is a Black Country lad, I believe, born and raised on a farm. Fine around the masts and in the sails, can do you a job anywhere. Arnott’s from Grimsby. Fisherman’s son. Doesn’t say much, but works as hard as you like.”

“They were friends, then?”

“Indeed. Tight as anyone. Attlee does most of the talking,
Arnott does most of the thinking, is what the rest of the crew would say about them.”

“And they were not particularly friends with Ransome?”

“No, Constable, I believe not. But as I have already said, there’s not many on the
Solander
could claim to be close friends with Sam Ransome.”

It occurs to Horton that the captain talks about the men as if they were still alive. Hopkins drains the last of his ale.

“Shall we walk outside?” he says. “I need to get back to my ship. We can talk further on the way.”

Without waiting for an answer, he gets up and walks to the door. Horton leaves the remainder of his own drink, and follows him.

The tide is falling and a few vessels at the edge of the river have already begun to settle onto the foreshore. It is gray and cold, less pleasant than the warm summer temperatures of recent days. Rotherhithe Street is busy, the shops and workshops and barrows all well attended by shouting men and women, and everywhere the clanking wood-and-metal noises of the working river. The riverfront here has become as busy as Wapping’s, with lumpers and watermen ferrying goods and people to and from the river, shouting at each other in words which sound as salty and alien as the incessant squawking of the gulls. A wind is blowing down the river and out with the tide. There are a few drops of rain in the air, but everyone ignores them.

Abigail will be somewhere like this just now, buying food and talking to friends. He wonders if her face will still hold that look of sad knowledge it held this morning when he left her, that terrible look which reflected back the awful images of the bloody boardinghouse room of Saturday. That look will be added, like so many other things, to Charles Horton’s
melancholy store of guilt, which he carries inside him like a rock in his stomach.

“Will others die?”

Hopkins is not looking at him when he asks the question; he is looking out at the river. Sailing men, Horton knows, will always look out onto the water, whatever may be happening on the land.

“I cannot say, Captain, until I discover why the three who have already died were dispatched. That is the single thing I would wish to know: the motive for their deaths. If we have motive, we have a chance of discovery.”

“Have you
investigated
many events like this?”

“Myself, no. I understand killings within a crew are not uncommon, but these circumstances are unusual. Normally, such killings immediately follow the perceived affront. They come quickly and with passion—during the voyage, in other words. These events are rather different. Why should the men be killed only after they land in London?”

“Why, indeed?”

“Will you sail soon?”

“In a few days. The ship has been emptied of its cargo. It is still not entirely clear what will happen to her. She is formally owned by the Admiralty, and was only leased to Sir Joseph. Presuming he does not wish to fund a second voyage, we will no doubt be returned to the Navy and become His Majesty’s Bark. There will be some errand that needs running to somewhere in the world.”

“Mr. Harriott will have words to say if you leave before the murders are resolved.”

“I’m sure he will. I will do as I am told, by Mr. Harriott, by Sir Joseph, or by Dundas himself.”

They reach the steps near the
Solander
, where the ship’s
yawl waits for its captain’s return. A seaman sits inside, shivering slightly in the fresh air, bored but alert when he sees Hopkins appear at the top of the steps.

“I will visit Nott again this evening,” says Hopkins, walking down the steps.

“Is that a request or an instruction, Captain?”

“Neither. The man is a bloody innocent in a city full of rogues, and you’ve put him in the one place the greatest rogues can pick at his bones. I will visit him, Horton, whether you or your magistrate like it or not.”

“I do not foresee any problem with your doing so.”

“Do you not? Well, then I am blessed. You know where to find me. Now, seaman, take me back to my ship.”

And Hopkins, who it transpires is even angrier than Horton had imagined, seats himself down in his yawl, and fails to say goodbye.

John Harriott’s day is taken up with Police Office business. He must catch up on other cases, and will be required to interrogate a half-dozen different men accused of a variety of offences. He deals with his correspondence first. There is a letter from Viscount Sidmouth, the new Home Secretary, requesting information on the murders in Wapping and Rotherhithe, stories of which have now entered the public realm. There is understandable concern in Whitehall that another situation of the same proportions as the Ratcliffe Highway killings is opening up on the damned river again. Harriott knows (for he is stubborn and bombastic but by no means stupid) how unpopular he was with Sidmouth’s predecessor Richard Ryder. Now, a month after the shocking assassination of Spencer Perceval, there is a new administration to deal with, though Harriott rather suspects its dislikes and prejudices will be the same, even if the faces are different.

The letter from Sidmouth makes no mention of jurisdiction.
Reading between its lines, however, Harriott can detect the whisperings of the Shadwell magistrates, who are no doubt maintaining that the first killing, at least, took place within their purview and that Harriott’s interventions are an unspeakable outrage. Harriott replies carefully to the letter, telling Sidmouth of the incarceration of Nott and the investigations of Horton. Reading the letter back, it occurs to him how sketchy and unsatisfactory are the results of their work so far. Three men dead, and all they have to show for it is one half-breed missionary locked up in the most unreliable prison in England.

So he folds up his first letter to Sidmouth and composes a second. It is a bland prevaricating missive that essentially says it is too early to say if there truly is a suspect, Nott’s arrest notwithstanding, and that all efforts are being made to locate the perpetrators.
This is how Shadwell would behave
, he thinks with a grimace, and then wonders if he is not, after all, turning into a politician.

As well as the letter from Sidmouth, the pile of correspondence includes a curt and to-the-point note from Robert Brown:

Soho Square

Delivered by hand to John Harriott, Magistrate, Thames River Police Office, Wapping

Sir,

Following our meeting, I have discussed your request with Sir Joseph. He is perfectly willing to meet with you, though his time is very scarce just now, taken up as it is with the new arrivals from Otaheite. He suggests that you join him and his fellow Royal Philosophers for dinner tonight at
the Cheshire Cheese, Fleet Street, from 7 p.m., prior to this evening’s meeting of the Royal Society. Please confirm by return your attendance.

I remain yours

R. Brown

The invitation is unexpected and generous and Harriott, still struggling to think like a politician, attempts to decode it. The Royal Philosophers are a well-known group of Royal Society Fellows and their invited guests who gather before every Royal Society meeting to dine copiously and discuss the latest discoveries and mysteries. For a man such as Harriott to be invited—a man with no ambitions or ability to be a natural philosopher, with none of the relevant reading or associations—is highly unusual. Why not simply invite Harriott to his house? With a rueful grimace Harriott remembers his only previous visit to the Banks residence on Soho Square. He sat, shivering, in a carriage while Graham went inside, refusing to take Harriott with him. He still feels aggrieved and embarrassed by the memory.