Under False Colours (3 page)

'We must have Russia as a continental reinforcement,' Dungarth had reiterated with characteristically single-minded vehemence. 'Without her almost inexhaustible resources of manpower, there is nothing on earth to oppose France ...'

That was true. Prussia had long ago succumbed, Austria was beaten, Germans, Poles and Danes all bowed to the imperial will. Apart from the British, only the isolated Swedes and the erratic Spaniards defied Paris ...

'And it's such a fragile thing, Nathaniel,' Dungarth's voice echoed in Drinkwater's memory, 'this alliance between Alexander and Napoleon, so flimsy, based as it is upon a mutual regard by two vain and selfish men. The one is utterly unreliable, the other determined, wilful, but fickle ... we have only to interpose a
doubt
, the one about the other and ...'

He woke with a start, aware that he had dozed off. It was quite dark in the room, for the candle had gone out. From the alley came the noise of a few passers-by, seamen bound for the neighbouring knocking shop, he guessed, noting the rain had stopped. From within the house came the dull buzz of conversation and domestic activity. The ship's chandler had shut up his store to take his evening meal with his wife and mother-in-law. Later, when he had finished, he would come and attend to his uninvited guest. He was in the pay of the government, a gleaner of news who talked freely to masters and mates in want of necessaries for their ships, seamen requiring outfits and slops and all those associated with the huge volume of merchant trade which flourished despite Napoleon's Continental System.

The gin had left Drinkwater thirsty and with a foul taste in his mouth. He got up and peered into the jug. The stale smell revolted him and he found he was in want of the privy.

'God's bones,' he swore, putting off the distasteful moment and standing by the window scratching the bites of the vermin which infested his mattress. Overhead the cloud was shredding itself to leeward. 'Wind veered nor' west,' he muttered to himself. Neither the westerly gale nor the veering wind would allow a boat to slip across the Strait of Dover. Fagan would not come tonight, nor tomorrow. Not unless he was a man of uncommon energy and sailed from Cherbourg, or some other port well to the westward.

Drinkwater went back to the bed and, hands behind his head, stared up at the pale rectangle of the ceiling. Where were Quilhampton and Frey now? Had James Quilhampton caught the mail coach and raced to Edinburgh to marry Mistress MacEwan? Drinkwater had sent him a draught to be drawn on his own prize agent to finance the wedding; but there was the troublesome person of the girl's aunt and the matter of the banns.

And had Frey done as instructed, and seen the bulk of Captain Drinkwater's personal effects into safe-keeping aboard his gun-brig?

The thoughts chased themselves round and round Drinkwater's brain. He longed for a book to read, but Solomon's clerk had conducted him to the vacant room above Mr Davey's chandlery with such circumspection that Drinkwater, eager not to lose a moment and expecting the mysterious Fagan to appear within hours of his taking post, had not thought of it for himself. Mr Davey's store had yielded up a copy of Hamilton Moore, but Drinkwater had spent too many hours conning its diagrams of the celestial spheroid in his youth to derive much satisfaction from it now.

Lying still, the urge to defecate subsided. How long would he have to wait before he confronted Fagan? And how would he accomplish that most subtle of tasks, the giving away of the game in a manner calculated to inform without raising the slightest suspicion?

A scratching at the door roused him from his lethargy. He opened the door upon Mr Davey's rubicund face.

'A bite to eat, Cap'n?'

'Aye, thank you, Mr Davey, and I'd be obliged for a new candle.'

'Of course ... if you'll bide a moment ...'

Davey slipped away to return a few moments later. 'Here you are, sir. There's no news I'm afraid, Cap'n ...'

'And not likely to be with this wind,' Drinkwater said morosely as Davey struggled with flint and steel.

'I wouldn't say that, Cap'n. Mr Fagan has a way of poppin' up, as it were. Like jack-in-the-box, if you take my meaning-'

'D'you know him well, then?'

'Well enough, Cap'n,' replied Davey, coaxing the candle into life. 'He takes his lodging in the room yonder. When I gets word I tell the one-legged gennelman.'

'I see. And the customer you received late this afternoon? What was his business?'

Davey winked and tapped the side of his nose. 'A gennelman in a spot o' trouble, Cap'n Waters,' he said, using Drinkwater's assumed name. 'Word gets round, d'ye see, that I sell paregoric elixir ...' Davey enunciated the words with a certain proprietorial hauteur. 'He's afeared o' visiting a quack or a 'pothecary, but mostly o'Job's Dock.'

'
Who's
dock?' asked Drinkwater, biting into the gristle that seemed the chief constituent of the meat pie Davey had brought him.

'Job's Dock, Cap'n, the venereal ward at St Bartholomew's. He's got himself burnt, d'ye see ...'

'Yes, yes ...' Drinkwater was losing his appetite.

'I stock a supply for the benefit of the seamen ...'

'I understand, Mr Davey, though I did not know tincture of opium was effective against the pox.'

'Ah, but it clears the distemper of the mind, Cap'n, it relieves the conscience ...'

When a man has a bad conscience, Drinkwater thought, the most trivial remarks and events serve to remind him of it. Perhaps Davey's paregoric elixir would remove the distemper of his own mind. He visited the privy and turned instead to the replenished jug of gin. An hour later he fell asleep.

He had no idea how long he had slept when he felt himself being shaken violently.

'Cap'n, sir! Cap'n! Wake ye up, d'ye hear! Wake up!'

Snatched from the depths of slumber Drinkwater was at first uncertain of his whereabouts, but then, suddenly alarmed, he thrust Davey aside to reach for his pistol. 'What the devil is it, Davey? Damn it, take your hands off me!'

"Tis him, sir, Fagan ... !'

Drinkwater was on his feet in an instant and had crossed the room to stare out over the dark gutway of the alley. No light betrayed any new arrival over the pie shop opposite. There were noises from the ginnel below, but there always were as the patrons of the adjacent bordello came and went.

'He's next door, sir, in Mrs Hockley's establishment, Cap'n.'

'How the deuce d'you know?' asked Drinkwater, drawing on the borrowed boots.

'She sent word, Cap'n. She keeps her ears and eyes open when I asks her.'

'You didn't mention me?' Drinkwater asked, relieved when Davey shook his head.

He wondered how many other people knew that Fagan was expected in the Alsatia of Wapping. It was too late for speculation now. His moment had come and he must act without hesitation. He pulled on his coat and took a swig of the watered gin, swilling it round his mouth and spitting it out again, allowing some of it to dribble on to his soiled neckcloth.

'I wouldn't take your pistol, Cap'n, Ma Hockley don't allow even the gentry to carry arms in her house ... here, take the cane.'

Drinkwater took the proffered malacca, twisted the silver knob to check the blade was loose inside, clapped his hat on his head and left the darkened room. 'Obliged to you, Mr Davey,' he said over his shoulder as he clattered down the stairs with Davey behind him. Davey pushed past him at their foot and led him through the store, opening the street door with a jangle of keys and tumbling of locks.

To Drinkwater, even the air of the alley smelled sweet after the stifling confinement of his room. Despite the slime beneath his feet and the sulphurous stink of sea-coal smoke, the wind brought with it a tang of salt, blown from the exposed mudflats of the Thames. He caught himself from marching along the alley and walked slowly towards the door of Mrs Hockley's. It was open, and spilled a lozenge of welcoming yellow lamplight on to the ground.

He turned into the doorway to be confronted by a tall ugly man.

'Yeah? What d'you want then?'

Drinkwater leaned heavily on his cane. He hoped his nervousness gave some credibility to his attempt to act drunk. He chose to speak with deliberate care rather than risk exposure by a poor attempt to slur his words.

'A little pleasure ... a little escape ... a desire to make the acquaintance of Mistress Hockley ...' He eased his weight against the wall.

''Eard of'er, 'ave you?'

'In the most favourable terms.' Drinkwater leaned against the wall while Mrs Hockley's pimp and protector half turned and thrust his head through a door leading off the hall.

'Got a nob here, Dolly, a-wishin' to make your hacquaintance ...'

Mrs Hockley appeared and Drinkwater doffed his hat and, still leaning on the wall, made a bow.

'Madam ... at your service ...' He straightened up. She was a voluptuously blowsy woman in her forties, her soiled gown cut low to reveal an ample bosom which she animated by shrugging her shoulders forward. 'Charmed, Madam,' Drinkwater added for good effect, admittedly stirred by the unrestrained flesh after so long an abstinence. 'I am in search of a little convivial company, Madam ...'

'Oh, you 'ave come to the right place, Mr ... ?'

'Waters, Madam, Captain Waters ... in the Baltic trade ...'

'Oh, ain't that nice. Let the Captain in, Jem.' She smiled, an insincere stretching of her carmined lips, and took his arm. 'What does the Captain fancy, then? I 'ave a new mulatto girl an' a peachy little virgin as might have just bin specially ordered for your very pleasure.'

Drinkwater followed her into a brightly lit room. It was newly papered and an India carpet covered the floor. Over the fireplace hung a large oil painting, an obscene rendering of the Judgement of Paris.

Four of Mrs Hockley's 'girls' lounged in various states of erotic undress on
chaises-longues
and sofas with which the room seemed overcrowded. The light was provided by an incongruously elaborate candelabra which threw a cunningly contrived side-light upon the bodies and faces of the waiting whores. Of the mysterious Fagan there was no sign.

'A little drink for the Captain,' Mrs Hockley ordered, 'while he makes his choice.'

Drinkwater grinned. 'No, thank you, I did not come here to drink, Mrs Hockley ...'

'My, the Captain's a wit, to be sure, ain't 'e girls?'

The whores stared back or smiled joylessly, according to their inclination. Drinkwater swiftly cast an eye over them. He was going to have to choose damned carefully and he was aware that his knowledge of the female character was wanting.

'This is Chloe, Captain, the mulatto girl of whom I spoke.' She had been handsome once, if you had a taste for the negro, Drinkwater thought, her dark eyes still contained a fire that suggested a real passion might be stirred by even the most routine of couplings. She would be dangerous for his purpose, a view confirmed by her sullen pout as he turned his attention away.

'And this is Clorinda ...' Bored and tired, Clorinda stared back at him through lacklustre eyes, her pseudo-classical trade name sitting ill upon her naked shoulders. 'And this is Zenobia ...'

Mixed blood had produced a skin the colour of
cafe au lait
and a luxurious profusion of raven hair. Zenobia was not handsome, her face was heavily pocked, but she had a lasciviously small waist and she met his stare with a steady gaze. She held his eyes a moment longer than prudence dictated, but the twitch of pure lust that ran through Drinkwater was masked mercifully by a heavy thud from the floor above. It prompted a self-conscious giggle from Chloe and the fourth girl as Mrs Hockley, growing impatient with her vacillating customer, played her ace. 'And this, Captain, offered to you at a special price, is Psyche.' Mrs Hockley drew the girl forward and, like a trained bear, the giggling bawd assumed a demure, downcast pose, as though reluctantly offering herself. 'A virgin, Captain ... certified so by Mr Gosse, the chirurgeon.'

Psyche's shoulders twitched and Drinkwater caught the inelegant snort of a suppressed laugh. The means by which Mr Gosse established Psyche's intact status were not in doubt.

'Really?' he said, trying to show interest while he made up his mind. There was a strong reek of gin on Psyche's breath. Clorinda was poking an index finger between the bare toes of her right foot and Chloe had turned away. Only Zenobia watched him, a look of hunger in her eyes. She turned slightly, cocking a hip at him in a small, intimate gesture of invitation.

He looked again at her waist and the riot of black hair that tumbled over her shoulders and down her back, curling over the breasts elevated by her tight corsage. From overhead, the bumps indicated someone was having a riotous time. He hoped its originator was Mr Fagan.

'How much, Mrs Hockley, are you asking for this quartern of bliss?' He gestured to Psyche with the head of his cane.

'Two guineas, Captain,' Mrs Hockley said, placing an intimate hand on Drinkwater's arm as if implying some kind of guarantee.

'And she is truly a virgin?'

'Would I lie, sir?' she asked, her hand abruptly transferred to her bosom, her red lips an outraged circle and her false lashes fluttering. 'She is fresh as a daisy, Captain, as I live and breathe ...'

'As she lives and breathes, Madam, there is an excess of gin! I'll take Zenobia.'

'Oh, sir, you
are
a wit, Zenobia is two guineas ...'

'Ten shillings, Madam, and for as long as I want pleasuring.' He was sickening of the charade, eager to be out of the heavily perfumed stink of the room.

'In advance, Captain, if you please.'

He drew the coins from his waistcoat pocket, dropped them into Mrs Hockley's eager palm and abruptly gestured Zenobia to lead him to her chamber. Upstairs, the false luxury of Mrs Hockley's
salon
gave way to a bare-boarded landing with half a dozen unpainted deal doors leading from it.

Zenobia, whose given name was more certainly Meg or Polly, entered one of them and closed the door behind them. The room had a small square of carpet, an upright chair and a bed. The sheets were stained and rumpled. The window had been bricked up, Drinkwater noticed, as Zenobia went round the room, lighting a trio of candle stumps from the single one she had brought upstairs. The air was filled with the strong scent of urine as Zenobia pulled a drab screen to one side. Instead of a commode a cracked china Jordan stood on a stool.