Lord John and the Hand of Devils (32 page)

The thought gave him a faint chill. Christ, what if it
were
bodies? The ape and his cohorts might be augmenting their pay by dealing as resurrection men, providing cadavers to the dissection rooms.

No. He dismissed the grisly vision of a dead and eviscerated Gormless as both too dramatic and too complicated to be true. Back to Occam, then. Given multiple alternatives, the simplest explanation is most likely to be true. And the simplest explanation for the disappearance of Herbert Gormley was, firstly, that Tom had seen the Barbary ape but had
not
seen Gormley, being mistaken in his identification. Or secondly—and equally likely, he thought, knowing Tom—that his valet
had
seen them both, and the ape had done something unaccountable with his captives.

They were presently operating under the second assumption, but perhaps that had been reckless of him. If…

All thought was momentarily suspended, his eye caught by a small boat halfway out from the shore. Or, rather, by the glint of sunlight on yellow hair. Grey uttered an oath which caused the sailor nearest him to drop his jaw, and leaned out over the rail, trying for a better look.

“He’s called Appledore,” said a voice in his ear, startling him.

“Who’s called Appledore?”

“Him what we’re watching, me lord—he’s a bosun’s mate, they say.
And
”—Tom swelled a bit with excited importance—“he was ashore Wednesday, and came back to the ship at…well, I don’t quite know, the peculiar way they have of telling time on ships, all bells and watches and such, but it was late.”

“Excellent,” he said, scarcely listening. “Tom, give me your spyglass.”

He clapped the instrument to his eye, catching wild swathes of river, sky, and clouds, until suddenly he brought the boat in view, its contents sharp and clear. There were two men in the boat. One of them was unfamiliar, a heavyset fellow muffled in a coat and cocked hat, a portmanteau at his feet. The man rowing in his shirtsleeves, though, yellow hair a-flutter in the wind, was Neil the Cunt. Which almost certainly meant that the other gentleman must be Howard Stoughton, master founder of the Royal Brass Foundry.

The small boat was not making for either of the two large ships, but steering a course a little way to the south. Following the direction of its bow, he saw a small, brisk-looking craft tacking slowly to and fro.

“Stay here.” Grey thrust the spyglass back into Tom’s hands. “See that small boat, with two men? Don’t take your eyes off it!”

“Where you going, me lord?” Tom, startled, was trying to look at his employer and through the glass at the same time, but Grey was already halfway to the door that led below.

“To organize a boarding party!” he called over his shoulder, and plunged without hesitation into the bowels of the
Sunrise.

T
he captain’s gig hurtled over the river’s chop, propelled by half a dozen burly sailors. The captain himself had come; Grey was shouting further explanation into his ear, clinging with one hand to the side of the boat, with the other to the impressive-looking cutlass the mate had shoved into his hand.

Tom Byrd and Captain Jones were likewise armed. Tom looked thrilled, Jones grimly dangerous.

The small boat was moving much more slowly, but had a substantial lead. It would undoubtedly reach the brig—Hanson said it was a brig—before they did, but that would not matter, so long as they were in time to prevent the brig’s fleeing downriver.

As they drew closer, he saw Neil Stapleton turn a startled face toward them, then turn back, redoubling his efforts at the oars.

For an instant, he wondered whether Stapleton was indeed Bowles’s man. But, no—he had caught a crab, as the sailors said, one oar skimming the surface and slewing his boat half round. Clever enough to look accidental, but slowing the smaller craft, while the gig cleaved the waters to the bosun’s bark.

Hanson was kneeling, gripping Grey’s shoulder to avoid being thrown from the boat, roaring something at the men on board the brig. They looked surprised, glancing from the oncoming gig to the smaller boat, struggling to reach them.

The small boat thumped the side of the brig; Grey heard it, and the cries of outrage from the men on deck. The impact had knocked the heavyset man into the bottom of the boat; he rose, cursing, and reached up, scrambling awkwardly over the rail of the brig, half-tumbling into the arms of the waiting sailors.

He gained his feet and turned back, reaching urgently over the rail for his portmanteau. But Stapleton had dug his oars and was pulling rapidly away, coming fast toward the gig.

“’Vast rowing!” bellowed the bosun, and the crew of the gig shipped oars as one, letting the long, sleek boat glide up beside the smaller one. Hands reached out to grab the sides, and Stapleton let go his oars.

His face was scarlet with exertion and excitement, blue eyes bright as candle flames. Grey spared the space of one deep breath to admire his beauty, then grabbed him by the arm and yanked him head over arse into the gig.

“Is it Stoughton?” Jones was yelling. Grey barely heard him above the bellowing to and fro of Hanson and the men on the deck of the brig above.

Stapleton was on hands and knees, gasping for breath, his face nearly in Grey’s lap, but managed to look up and nod. Other hands were grappling across the portmanteau; it fell with a thud into the bottom of the gig, and Jones lunged for it.

“Come on!” Hanson shouted. He was already reaching for the hands of the sailors on the brig. Grey rose, lurching to keep his footing, was seized by several helpful pairs of hands and virtually thrown aboard the brig. He seized the rail to keep from falling back, and over his shoulder saw Stapleton’s grinning face below.

He sketched a salute, then turned to deal with the matter at hand.

W
hat do you mean, it’s a naval vessel?” Jones looked disbelieving.
“This?”

The captain of the
Ronson,
for so the small and elderly brig was named, looked displeased. He was very young, but conscious of the dignity of his service, his ship, and himself.

“We are one of His Majesty’s ships,” he said stiffly. “You are under the jurisdiction of the navy, Captain. And you will
not
take this man.”

The man, Stoughton, drew breath at this, and left off looking quite so terrified.

“He’s right, you know.” Captain Hanson, crammed into the tiny cabin with Grey, Jones, and Stoughton, had been listening to all the arguments and counterarguments, an expression of bemused absorption on his face. “His authority on his own vessel is absolute—save a senior naval officer should come aboard.”

“Well, bloody hell! Are you not a senior officer, then?” Jones cried. His eyes were bloodshot, he was soaked with river water, and his hair was standing on end.

“Well, yes,” Hanson said mildly. “But the gentleman who wrote that letter is a good deal more senior still.” He nodded at the open letter on the desk, the sheet of paper that Stoughton had been carrying in his bosom.

It was crumpled and damp, but clearly legible. It was signed by a vice-admiral, and it gave one Howard Stoughton safe passage upon any of His Majesty’s ships.

“But the man is a fucking traitor!” Jones was still holding his cutlass. He tightened his fist upon it and glared at the hapless Stoughton, who recoiled a little but stood his ground.

“I am not!” he said, sticking out his chin. “’Twasn’t treason, whatever else you like to call it.”

The two sea captains glanced at each other, and Grey felt something unseen pass between them.

“A word with you, sir?” Hanson asked politely. “If you will perhaps excuse us, gentlemen…”

Grey and Jones were obliged to leave, the
Ronson
’s mate escorting them up on deck and out of earshot.

“I don’t frigging believe it. How can he…”

Grey wasn’t listening. He went to the rail and leaned over, to see Stapleton engaged in argument with the gig’s bosun, apparently over the portmanteau. The bosun had the case between his feet, and appeared to be resisting Stapleton’s efforts to open it.

“What do you think is in there, Mr. Stapleton?” he called.

Neil looked up, face still flushed, and Grey caught the gleam of his teeth as he shouted back.

“Gold,” he said. “Maybe papers. Maybe a name. I hope so.”

Grey nodded, then caught the bosun’s eye.

“Don’t let him open it,” he called, and turned away. Occam’s razor said Stoughton had acted alone—all other things being equal. But someone had exerted considerable force upon the navy to produce that letter. And he did not think Stoughton possessed anything like that sort of influence.

Grey smelt a rat; a large one.

If he
hadn’t
acted alone, Grey wanted the name of his confederate. And he had no faith at all that that name would ever come to light, once Hubert Bowles got his hands on it. Particularly not if that name had anything to do with His Majesty’s navy.

The sound of the cabin door opening presaged the appearance on deck of Captain Hanson, who jerked his chin to summon Grey aside. He looked bemused.

“Right,” he said. “I have thirty seconds, and this is between you and me. He is who you think he is, and he’s done what you think he’s done—and he’s going to France in the
Ronson.
I’m sorry.”

Grey took a long, deep breath, and wiped a flying strand of hair out of his face.

“I see,” he said, calmly under the circumstances. “He sold the copper to the navy.”

Hanson had the grace to look embarrassed.

“It is wartime,” he said. “The lives of our men—”

“Is the life of a sailor worth more than that of a soldier?”

Hanson’s lips set in a grimace, but he didn’t reply.

Grey realized that his nails were cutting into the palms of his hands, and consciously unclenched his fists, breathing. Hanson was stirring, preparing to go.

“One thing,” Grey said, holding Hanson’s eye.

The captain made a brief motion of the head, not quite agreement, but willingness to listen.

“One minute alone with that portmanteau. The price of the gunners’ lives.”

Hanson’s jaw worked for a moment.

“Not alone,” he said finally. “With me.”

“Done,” said Grey.

I
t was nearly sunset when he emerged from Captain Hanson’s cabin. Jones was sitting on a gun case by the rail. He had passed the point of apoplexy long since, and merely regarded Grey with a suspicious, bloodshot eye.

“Got it, did you?” he said.

Grey nodded.

“And you aren’t going to tell me, are you?” Jones sounded bitter, but resigned.

Grey reached into his pocket, brought out the small lump of the leopard’s head, cold and hard, and dropped it into Jones’s open palm.

“You have the proof you sought. You and Gormley were right; the cannons failed because of lack of copper, and it was Stoughton who stole it. You will make your report to that effect—and before you give it to your colonel in the Royal Artillery Regiment and to Bowles, you will send a copy to the Royal Commission of Inquiry into the explosion of the cannon Tom Pilchard.”