Page 17 of A Fortune Most Fatal (Miss Austen Investigates #2)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
After the sky fills with squawking gulls and the flat road sinks between the dunes, the small town of Whitstable draws into sight. Mr. Bridges stables the horse at an inn at the start of the crooked high street, then he and Jane proceed towards the front on foot. The air is thick with salt, and the fierce breeze blows Jane’s curls into her eyes and flaps her skirts around her legs as she jogs to keep up with his long strides. She is eager for her first glimpse of the sea, and even more anxious to conceal her childish delight in it from Mr. Bridges. The thoroughfare is crowded with shoppers, and she is surprised to note so many well-dressed and well-fed but seemingly idle men loitering on corners with their mounts. They cannot all be as indolent or as fortunate as Mr. Bridges. At last, the naked masts of a handful of cutters rise over the tiled rooftops and a narrow lane reveals a tantalizing flash of calm grey water stretching beyond the misty horizon. Jane’s pulse quickens at the limitless possibilities it represents. If Providence had made her a man, she would not be able to resist its allure.
Determined to succeed in her commissions as well as her investigation, Jane compares muslins and drives a hard bargain on fresh oysters while Mr. Bridges questions the shopkeepers on the most likely whereabouts of the Riding Officer. As Neddy explained, the Royal Navy are preoccupied with the war effort so the Revenue Office has employed a local man, a Mr. Skeete, to keep watch along the shore. It is Mr. Skeete’s job to ride continuously up and down the Kent coast, looking for vessels entering the Thames estuary with the intention of smuggling licensed goods to or from the Continent. However, the merchants cheerfully report that he can usually be found at the harbour, playing dice with any unoccupied sailors, or along the promenade offering guided tours to visitors.
Armed with this knowledge, Mr. Bridges carries Jane’s basket and leads her along the Island Wall: a low stone structure that purportedly protects the cluster of clapboard cottages from dissolving into salt marsh. On the other side of the partition, a shingle beach leads to the sea, lapping lazily at the muddy shoreline. Today, the waves are as level as the surrounding countryside and the Isle of Sheppey sits squat and leafy in the distance. Whitstable is situated at the point where the Swale river meets the sea, and the shallow water makes a perfect breeding ground for various species of shellfish. At least two dozen small boats bob on the surface, dredging for oysters. Mr. Bridges explains these are called yawls and are distinct to the area. Although he has professed himself not to be a seaman, Jane is amused to note he is as animated as any of her brothers as he explains the different configurations of bows and sterns employed by the fishermen of Kent.
“I’ll wager there’s our Riding Officer.” Mr. Bridges breaks off his instruction to signal towards a weaselly young man perched on top of the wall. The youth holds a telescope to one eye, and squints at the curved bay below. “Ahoy there, sirrah.”
Mr. Skeete removes his telescope. “Sir.”
“Mr. Bridges, of the Goodnestone Bridges.”
“Mr. Skeete, at your service.” He bows in deference to the Bridges family name. How much easier these interactions are, Jane notes, when one is male and a member of the local gentry.
“We’d like to talk to you about the strange woman found wandering along the beach by Dr. Wilmot and his wife. I believe they brought her to you in the first instance.” Mr. Bridges climbs up to Mr. Skeete’s level. Jane remains at the foot of the steps, next to a group of fishwives gutting flounder on a trestle table in front of a ramshackle collection of huts. The women chatter while they work, grazing their paring knives over the fish’s scales as their eyes dart to small children playing at their feet. They remind Jane of the way she and Cassandra converse as they sew, their minds paying little heed to what their fingers are doing. She smiles at the party in greeting but only the lopsided faces of the spotted fish return her gaze.
Mr. Skeete scratches the fluff along his top lip. “The Spanish princess?”
“If you believe she is a princess, or even a Spaniard,” replies Mr. Bridges.
Throughout the rest of their journey, Jane primed him most thoroughly for this conversation. So far, she is delighted he is sticking to her script word for word.
“She’s a Spaniard, all right. Kidnapped and held at the mercy of pirates since she was a girl. One of the lascars translated for her,” says Mr. Skeete, although his eyes stray from Mr. Bridges’s face down to the curve of the bay.
Jane stands apart, trying not to make it obvious how keenly she is listening. She knows from bitter experience that Mr. Skeete is far more likely to confide in Mr. Bridges than herself. Especially if he suspects anything unsavoury about Eleanor’s past. She gazes down towards the bay to see what has attracted his interest. Around twenty yards out to sea, a draught horse is submerged up to its flanks, tethered to what looks like a privy on wheels. It must be one of those newfangled bathing machines. Jane read an intriguing account of the facility in one of Elizabeth’s copies of the Lady’s Magazine but she’s never seen one in person before.
“And you’re sure she wasn’t already known to this lascar? Or anyone else hereabouts?” asks Mr. Bridges.
“Known, sir?”
“You didn’t recognise her? And the lascar did not seem familiar with her?”
“He couldn’t have been. His ship only docked that morning.”
“And where might I find this lascar?”
“You won’t. His ship’s gone out again.” Mr. Skeete shakes his head. “But she was definitely a Spanish princess, I’d stake my life on it.”
Mr. Bridges hesitates. “She also claimed she was involved in a shipwreck, yet no vessels have been reported lost along this stretch of coastline recently. If any had, the wreckage would have washed up by now. Wouldn’t it?”
Mr. Skeete furrows his brow, as if he is just as confused by this discrepancy in Eleanor’s story as Mr. Bridges is. “There’ve been no wrecks along my stretch, sir. Not since the winter.”
Jane releases a breath, turning back to the beach. Eleanor is a slight thing. It would be impossible for her to swim ashore in a storm. Mrs. Wilmot’s suspicion, that she entered the water of her own accord, is far more likely. Was she so ground down by her circumstances that death seemed a preferable alternative? Jane wonders if Mr. Bridges would agree to circulate the girl’s description in the less salubrious taverns they passed on Whitstable’s high street. He could pretend he was a philanderer with a penchant for redheads—masquerading as a rascal could prove an interesting cure for his ennui. Perhaps Mr. Bridges has even frequented such places in the past. Jane would never have suspected any of her brothers capable of entering a bawdy house, yet she knows Neddy must have. But what would she do if a tavern reported that a girl answering to Eleanor’s description was missing? The next logical thing would be to enquire if her brother had ever patronized the establishment. Could she involve Mr. Bridges in such a sordid investigation, and does she really want to know the answer?
Out in the bay, two burly female dippers pull down the ladder on the back of the bathing machine, and wrench open the door. A lady steps out, dressed in a loose red gown and cap. The dippers jump into the lapping waves, calling to and motioning for the lady to join them. Understandably, she clutches tight to the rail, her posture rigid with fear. It is very rare for ladies to learn to swim. Jane has never so much as paddled her bare feet along the shoreline. If the dippers were to let go of their charge, even for a moment, she could be swept away by the elements.
Mr. Bridges shrugs his shoulders at Jane, having exhausted all her predefined prompts. She glares at him, willing him to continue until he discovers something useful. With a sigh, he turns back to Mr. Skeete. “What about inland? Are you in communication with the watch towards Uplees?”
Mr. Skeete sucks in a sharp breath. “If there was a wreck, and I’m not saying there was, I reckon it must have gone down further out. Around Margate, say. Terribly dangerous around there.”
The lady is in the sea now, submerged up to her shoulders. Her shrieks of delight carry all the way to shore. The dippers laugh as she splashes around. Jane tries to imagine how the briny water would feel on her skin: delightfully cool on this stifling day. Perhaps she should convince her parents to take Cassandra to the coast. She could visit Eliza and Hastings at Brighton. A spot of sea bathing could be just the thing to revive Cassandra’s spirits. Or not, given how poor Mr. Fowle was buried at sea. Would it have helped to ease Cassandra’s grief if she had a grave to visit? As it is, Jane’s sister will have to mourn Mr. Fowle every time she is confronted with the endless waves.
Mr. Bridges scratches his temple. “What? Are you suggesting she could have swum upriver to make it to shore?”
“Yes … Or perhaps the vessel didn’t go down, and she jumped ship to escape her captors. Those blackguards will be long gone, by now. Across the Channel, on to the Continent. Or maybe even across to the New World. The West Indies, most likely. I hear the waters around Jamaica are particularly infested with pirates.” Mr. Skeete warms to his theme. “There’ll be no hope of catching—”
A bloodcurdling scream cuts him off mid-sentence.
Jane’s heart constricts as she trains her eyes out across the water. She searches for the lady in her red cap, fearing she has eluded her dippers and gone under.
But it is the lady who is screaming as she scrabbles up the stairs of the bathing machine. The two dippers wave frantically to the shore. Beside Jane, one of the younger fishwives stands. She tosses aside her paring knife. It lands with a thud as she lifts her skirts and runs, barefoot, up the steps and down onto the beach. For a few awful moments, she is the only one to react. Jane and everyone else stare on in stunned silence, trying to decipher why she is so panicked when the lady and both her dippers are accounted for.
But then Jane spots something floating in the water beside the bathers.
Mr. Skeete lifts his telescope and presses it to one eye. “God’s teeth, not another.” He sets off after her. Some of the other women follow. All along the beach, people halt in their promenade and fishermen pause in their work. Everyone is staring anxiously towards the horizon. Jane turns to Mr. Bridges, who is frowning in confusion. The object bobs in the water, long and pale. Could it be a piece of driftwood? If so, why are the women alarmed?
The young fishwife has reached the shoreline. The waves drag at her skirts, but she advances undeterred through the foaming water. The dippers have caught the object between them and are towing it through the waves. The scene pulls Jane towards it. Her feet climb the steps of their own accord, despite the leaden weight of her legs.
“Jane, wait.” Mr. Bridges reaches for her wrist as she passes, but she shakes herself free. The women have hauled the wreckage onto the beach. They huddle around it, obscuring Jane’s view. But she can tell, by their reverent silence and the way the object bends to their will, that it is not a piece of driftwood.
It is a corpse.
A man. Now, laid out in the shallows—his arms spread wide as if nailed to a cross. His lips dark blue, his features all but destroyed, but wearing the distinctive striped jersey of a sailor. The fishwife who led the charge falls to her knees beside him. The other women stare at each other, white-faced and mute with shock. Jane stumbles over the shingle, nearly twisting her ankle, to reach them. One of the oystermen has rowed to the shore and passes a rough felt blanket to the Riding Officer. Deftly, Mr. Skeete shakes it over the body and barks directions. The women roll the remains into a tight bundle. Four of them haul it up and trudge towards the huts.
Mr. Skeete follows, leaving the first fishwife and an older woman on their knees in the mud. He swore there had been no wrecks along this part of the coast. Yet Eleanor was found in just her shift, blue and shivering as if she’d spent some time in the water. And now here is a dead sailor, washed up before Jane’s very eyes. And he is not the first. God’s teeth, not another , Mr. Skeete had exclaimed, when he saw the man’s deceased form drifting in the waves. Is it possible Eleanor really did survive a shipwreck?
Jane breaks into a run, desperate to reach the last two women before they depart. She must uncover details of this tragedy. The knowledge could help her sort through Eleanor’s jumbled account to find out who she is and why she is cleaving to Mrs. Knight. “Excuse me,” she cries.
The older woman stares up at her, open-mouthed. There is a yellow bruise at her temple and both of her front teeth are missing.
“Do forgive me for asking but was that …” Jane braces herself “… was that a lost sailor washed up onto the beach?”
The older woman staggers to her feet. “What’s it to you? That ain’t a revenue man, is it? I ain’t one to peach.” She motions behind Jane, where Mr. Bridges is stumbling along the shingle.
“Oh, goodness, no. Pay no mind to him. He’s a very fine gentleman, never worked a day in his life.” Jane places a hand to her throat. “It’s just … if it was a lost sailor, and if a vessel did go down hereabouts recently, I think I may know someone who was on it.”
The woman makes a curt nod, confirming Jane’s suspicions.
“But how strange. We were just this very moment talking to the Riding Officer and he claimed to have no knowledge of any ships getting into difficulty along this stretch of coast.”
“He knows all right. Useless beggar!” The woman shouts over Jane’s shoulder: “When are you going to tow in the wreck and retrieve the rest of the bodies? Or are you leaving it out there, so you can cut the tubs free and take the loot for yourself ?”
Mr. Skeete turns to sneer at her, “Watch your tongue, Molly. Unless you want it cut out.”
Jane flinches at the violence of their exchange. Could Mr. Skeete be lying, while Eleanor is telling the truth? “You’re expecting more bodies?”
Molly narrows her eyes, clearly assessing Jane—trying to decide why she should tell her anything at all. “Only three have washed up, so far. But there’s another dozen or so sailors from the town missing. My old man included. All gone, since the night of the terrible storm, three weeks back.”
“I’m so sorry,” Jane steps closer, reaching for Molly’s hand. “Do you know which ship he was aboard?”
Molly rears backwards, tearing her calloused fingers from Jane’s grasp. “No. And I won’t be sorry if he washes up dead. He was an idle brute. Only went out when he was short on coin for rum and whoring. And he never told me when he did. God forbid I look to him to feed his own children.”
“Oh …” It is not often Jane is speechless, but this is one of those rare occasions.
“Whatever vessel our menfolk were aboard must have got caught in a swell and flipped over, somewhere upriver. I expect it happened so quick, most of them were trapped below deck or caught in the rigging. That’s why it’s taking so long for the tide to bring them back to us. But the sea will rattle them free, eventually. Please, God, my old man’ll turn up. So I’ll have the peace of knowing I’m rid of him, at last.” Molly turns to the first fishwife, still sobbing in the muddy shingle. She grabs her by the elbows and hoists her to her feet. Evidently the younger woman cannot reconcile her loss so easily.
“Three men, you say?” Jane swallows, afraid of the answer to her next question before she has even asked it. “I wonder, have any women washed up at all?”
“What makes you ask that?”
The hairs on the backs of Jane’s arms rise. She and Molly are caught in a moment of silence, both wondering how much they dare reveal to each other. “No reason …”
“Not a woman, more of a girl.” The older woman looks out to sea.
“Oh …” Jane’s heart sinks.
“Must have been the captain’s daughter. No women on board a boat. Not honest ones, anyway.” Molly wraps her arms around her companion and half carries her towards the jetty.
The muscles in Jane’s forehead stretch tight as she watches them go. She already knows that Eleanor is not an “honest woman.” If she was on that ship, it is likely she and any other women, or girls, were there to entertain the sailors. But, despite the slurs against her character and Mr. Skeete’s protestations about there being no wrecks nearby, it is just possible Eleanor is telling the truth about swimming to shore.
“Is that proof enough of a wreck for you?” Mr. Bridges edges gingerly over the pebbles, echoing Jane’s thoughts.
“I dare say it is. Why do you think the Riding Officer lied to us?”
He spreads his arms wide, “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
Jane stares back at him. “Is it?”
“He’ll have been paid to keep quiet. Any boats sailing up and down the Swale in secret are likely to be involved in smuggling.”
The whisper of a memory lurks at the edge of Jane’s consciousness. No one sails this way in a storm. Not unless they’re trying to escape paying their dues. The smell of dried hops, a rising panic in her chest. An old man sitting before a fireplace with a pipe clenched between his teeth, the night her writing box almost made its way to the West Indies while she waited anxiously at the inn for her father and Neddy to retrieve it. A cutter went down off the coast of Harty not five nights since. “ Mr. Bridges, is there a place called Harty along this stretch of coast?
“Yes. It’s on the Isle of Sheppey, just over the water. Look, you can see it from here.” He points across the estuary. On the other side, Jane can just make out a square tower rising above the trees. She has the answer. She has had the answer all along. The old man from the Bull and George inn at Dartford gave an eyewitness account of the disaster. But Jane was not paying him any attention, and she did not think to connect it afterwards, because, as usual, she was too preoccupied with her own affairs. Every one of those poor souls perished that night. All the crew drowned. Must have been twenty men at least, onboard a ship like that. If the skipper had lived, he’d be up in front of a justice by now—with a noose around his neck.
What if the old man was wrong and not everyone perished? Could Eleanor have been on board that ship, and somehow made it to shore, followed by its skipper, the vile Captain Fairbairn? It would be a blessed relief for the captain to prove a real villain and for Jane to abandon her suspicion that Neddy is behind the malicious notes. If so, Eleanor would know enough about the man’s crimes to see him hanged—not only smuggling, but also the loss of every other soul onboard due to his negligence. The knowledge would put Eleanor, and anyone harbouring her, in a hazardous position. Perhaps she constructed her alternative identity and is hiding at Godmersham Park because she does not want the captain to know she survived.
Except Fairbairn has found her anyway, and is calling for Mrs. Knight to turn her out, so that he can silence her for good. He may even have tried to enter the mansion to reach her but was frightened away by Armand and his blunderbuss on the night the kitchen door was found swinging open. That the captain and Neddy use the same paper, and are both involved in Eleanor’s past, seems too suspicious to ignore—but it could be an unfortunate coincidence. Fairbairn may be an independent mariner with ties to the area. Perhaps he commanded a vessel in the merchant fleet and bought the paper at the stationer’s in Canterbury, which Neddy may also frequent. “Mr. Bridges, do you think, if a boat went down between here and Harty, it would be possible for someone to swim all the way to where we are standing?”
“It would take a superhuman amount of strength. But it’s been known to happen.” Mr. Bridges sways, catching himself before he stumbles.
Jane rushes to his aid. “Are you quite well?”
“Give me a moment. I warned you my constitution could not withstand the sight of blood. Or putrefied corpses, as it turns out.” He retrieves a flask from his frock coat and takes a nip. “Actually, I don’t think that helped. Do you happen to have any smelling salts?”
“No, because I’m not an eighty-year-old dowager duchess and neither are you.” Jane peers at him. His face is ashen. “Shall I fetch a physician?”
“No!” He launches himself bolt upright.
“Then take command of yourself. This is most unmanly.”
“Unmanly? I’m beginning to think my sister’s right about you, Jane. You are trouble.”
“Then give me your arm and I shall return you to your nursemaid forthwith.”
“Don’t you dare,” he says, latching onto Jane’s elbow. “A man likes to encounter a little danger every once in a while. It makes one feel alive. Unlike that poor fellow, God rest his soul.”
“Hmm …” Jane struggles to maintain her own balance, as she leads Mr. Bridges back to the Island Wall. Despite its unpleasantness, the expedition to Whitstable has proved most fruitful. She now knows why Eleanor lied: she was mortally afraid of Fairbairn discovering that she survived the shipwreck and is witness to his crimes. If Jane wants to move Eleanor on, all she has to do is persuade her it is safe to come forward with the truth of the disaster she witnessed at sea. Eleanor is not the only person able to testify against the captain. If Jane can trace the old man from the inn, he will corroborate her story. Now that she has evidence to suggest someone other than Neddy is sending the notes, her faith in her brother’s ability to redeem himself is revived. And with Mrs. Knight, and Neddy’s help, Jane is sure she can remove Eleanor to safety and see the captain served justice.