Morgan's Run Read online

  Richard was going to the door when the Collector of Excise spoke again. “If the fraud is as large as you say, Mr. Morgan, there will be an eight-hundred-pound reward, five hundred pounds of which will go to you. After testifying at their trial, of course.”

  He could not resist asking. “Who gets the other three hundred?”

  “The men who arrest the culprits, Mr. Morgan.”

  And that was that. Richard went home.

  “You were right, Father,” he said to Dick. “If all turns out as I expect it will, then I will receive five-eighths of an eight-hundred-pound reward.”

  Dick looked skeptical. “Three hundred pounds seem excessive for a dozen Excise Men to share for nothing more than the act of arrest.”

  Which made Richard laugh. “Father! I had not thought ye so green! I imagine that the Excise Men who do the actual arresting will share fifty pounds of it. The other two hundred and fifty will undoubtedly find their way into Mr. Benjamin Fisher’s pockets.”

  On Sunday the 22nd of June a dozen Excise Men chopped down the back door of the Cave distillery, charged into the deserted premises with staves at the ready, and there located four dozen full 50-gallon hogsheads of illicit rum connected to the stills by illicit pipes.

  When Mr. Thomas Cave rode up on his horse at two on Monday morning and Mr. William Thorne and Mr. John Trevillian Ceely Trevillian drove up in their geehoe shortly thereafter, the gaping tatters of the door and the Excise seals on everything inside told an unmistakable tale.

  “We were rumbled,” said Mr. Thorne, showing his teeth.

  Cave shivered in terror. “Ceely, what do we do?”

  “As the rum is gone, I suggest we go home,” said Ceely coolly.

  “Why are they not here to arrest us?” Cave asked.

  “Because they wanted no trouble, Tom. The amount of rum will have told them that there are some ruthless characters involved—it is a hanging offense. An Excise Man is not paid enough to risk a pistol ball in his guts.”

  “Our sources should have informed us ahead of time!”

  “That they should,” said Ceely grimly, “which leads me to think that this came from the very top and that foreign men were used.”

  “Richard Morgan!” snarled Thorne, pounding one fist into the palm of his other hand. “The fucken bugger rumbled us!”

  “Richard Morgan?” Trevillian frowned. “You mean that damned goodlooking fellow fixes the leaks?”

  Thorne’s eyes dwelled on him in wonder; he lifted his lantern to inspect Ceely’s face closely. “Ye’re a mystery to me, Ceely,” he said slowly. “Is it women ye fancy, or men?”

  “Who I fancy is not important, Bill. Go home and start putting a story together for the Collector of Excise. ’Tis you who’ll bear the blame.”

  “What d’ye mean, me? We will all bear it!”

  “Afraid not,” said Ceely Trevillian lightly, jumping up into the geehoe. “Did you not tell him, Tom?”

  “Tell me what, Tom?”

  But Mr. Cave could only shiver and shake his head.

  “Tom made you the licensee,” said Ceely. “Some time ago, as a matter of fact. I thought it might be a good idea, and he saw my point at once. As for me—I have no connection whatsoever with Cave’s distillery.” He shook the reins to gee up the horses.

  William Thorne stood leaden-footed, unable to move. “Where are you going?” he asked feebly.

  Ceely’s teeth, very white, flashed in a laugh. “To the Temple Backs, of course, to alert our confederate.”

  “Wait for me!”

  “You,” said Mr. Ceely Trevillian, “can walk home, Bill.”

  The sledge glided off, leaving Thorne to confront Cave.

  “How could ye do this to me, Tom?”

  Cave’s tongue came out to lick at his lips. “Ceely insisted,” he bleated. “I cannot stand against the man, Bill!”

  “And you thought it an excellent idea. You would, you lily-livered old turd!” said Thorne bitterly.

  “It is Ceely,” Thomas Cave insisted. “I’ll not leave ye unsupported, that is a promise. Whatever it takes to get you off will be done.” Panting with the effort, he managed to haul himself onto his horse; Thorne made no move to help him.

  “I will hold you to that promise, Tom. But more important by far is the murder of Richard Morgan.”

  “No!” Cave cried. “Whatever else you do, not that! Excise knows, you fool! Kill their informant and we will all hang!”

  “If this comes to trial, I am certainly going to hang, so what matters it to me, eh?” He was shouting now. “Best make sure it never does come to trial, Tom! And that goes for Ceely too! If I go down, Richard Morgan will not be the only snitch! I will bring you and Ceely down with me—we will all go to the gallows! Hear me? All of us!”

  Mr. Benjamin Fisher summoned Richard to Excise House early in the morning of the next day, the 23rd of June.

  “I advise you not to return to work, Mr. Morgan,” said the Collector of Excise, two spots of color burning in his cheeks. “My fools of men raided Cave’s distillery during the day, so no one was apprehended. All they did was seize the liquor.”

  Richard gaped. “Christ!”

  “Well but fruitlessly said, sir. I echo your sentiment, but the damage is done. The only one Excise can prosecute is the licensee for having illicit rum on his premises.”

  “Old Tom Cave? But he is not the principal villain!”

  “Thomas Cave is not the licensee. That is William Thorne.”

  Richard gaped again. “And what of Ceely Trevillian?”

  Looking absolutely disgusted, Mr. Fisher squeezed his hands together and leaned forward. “Mr. Morgan, we have no case against anyone save William Thorne.” He put on his spectacles, grimacing. “Mr. Trevillian is extremely well connected, and general opinion around town is that he is an amiable, harmless simpleton. I will interview him for myself, but I must warn you that were it to come to court, it would be your word against his. I am very sorry, but unless new evidence comes to light Mr. Trevillian is unimpeachable. I am not even sure,” he ended, sighing, “that we have enough to hang William Thorne, though he will certainly go down for seven years’ transportation.”

  “Why did your men not wait to catch them in the act?”

  “Cowardice, sir. It is ever the way.” Mr. Fisher took his spectacles off and polished them vigorously, blinking away tears. “Though it is early, Mr. Thomas Cave is already waiting downstairs, I imagine to negotiate a settlement by offering to pay a very large fine. That is where the money lies, Mr. Morgan—I am not so blind that I cannot see that William Thorne is a red herring. Excise will get no recompense out of the licensee, whereas it may from the owner. That includes you. Your reward, I mean.”

  As Richard left he encountered Thomas Cave in the foyer, but was wise enough to say nothing as he passed. No point in going to the distillery; he went back to the Cooper’s Arms.

  “So I have no job and at least two of the three culprits are to escape justice,” he told Dick. “Oh, if only I had known!”

  “It sounds as if Tom Cave will buy Thorne off,” said Dick, and cheered up. “Be thankful for one thing, Richard. No matter which way it goes, ye’ll get that five hundred pounds.”

  That was true, but less of a comfort than Dick suspected. At least a part of Richard wanted to see Mr. John Trevillian Ceely Trevillian in the dock. Quite why he did not know, except that it lay in Ceely’s insultingly blatant look of appreciation on that first meeting. I am less than the dust to that conceited, whinnying fop, and I hate him. Yes, hate. For the first time in my life, I am filled with an emotion that held no personal significance for me until now; what used to be a word has become a fact.

  He missed Peg in these trying times. The grief at her going had been great, but diminished by those last years of opposition, tears, drinking, wandering in the mind. Yet as the days went by and he searched Bristol for a job, that Peg was fading, to be replaced by the Peg he had married seventeen years ago. He needed t
o cuddle against her, to converse softly with her in the night, to seek the only kind of sexual solace he deemed truly satisfactory—one wherein love and friendship contributed at least as much as passion. There was no one left to talk to, for though his father was firmly on his side, Dick would always look down on him as too soft, a trifle spineless. And Mum was Mum—cook and scullery maid in one. In a few years William Henry would be his equal; then all he would lack was sexual solace. And that, Richard had resolved, would have to be put away until after William Henry was grown to full maturity. For he would not inflict a stepmother on this beloved only child, and whores were a kind of woman he could not stomach no matter how he ached for the simplest, most basic relief.

  On Monday, which was the last day of June, Richard left at the crack of dawn—very early at this time of summer solstice—to walk the eight miles of hilly road between the Cooper’s Arms and Keynsham, a hamlet along the Avon made larger and much dirtier by folk like William Champion, brass maker. Champion had patented a secret process for refining zinc from calamine and old tailings, and it had come to Richard’s ears that he was looking for a good man to deal with zinc. Why not try? The worst that could happen was a refusal.

  William Henry left for school at a quarter to seven as usual, grumbling because the Head had insisted that school be held on the last day of June when it fell on a Monday. His grandmother’s response was a good-natured cuff over the ear; William Henry took the hint and departed. Tomorrow was the commencement of two months of holiday, for the wearers of the blue coat as well as the paying pupils. Those who had homes and parents to go to would doff their blue coats and quit Colston’s until the beginning of September, while those like Johnny Monkton who had neither parents nor home would spend the summer at Colston’s under a somewhat relaxed code of discipline.

  Dadda had explained why he could not keep William Henry company over the next two months, and William Henry understood completely. He was well aware that all of Dadda’s efforts were on his behalf, and that put a burden on his young shoulders that he did not even know was there. If he worked very hard over his books—and he did—it was to please Dadda, who valued an education more highly than any nine-year-old boy possibly could.

  At the gates of Colston’s School he stopped, amazed; they were festooned with black ribbons! Mr. Hobson, a junior master, was waiting just inside them to put a hand on William Henry’s arm.

  “Home again, lad,” he said, turning William Henry around.

  “Home again, Mr. Hobson?”

  “Aye. The Head passed away in his sleep during the night, so there is no school today. Your father will be notified about the funeral, Morgan Tertius. Now off you go.”

  “May I see Monkton Minor, sir?”

  “Not today. Goodbye,” said Mr. Hobson firmly, giving William Henry a little push between his shoulder blades.

  At the Stone Bridge the child paused, frowning. What a bother! Dadda off to Keynsham, Grandpapa and Grandmama busy with the Monday chores—what was he going to do all day without Johnny?

  This was the first time that life had presented William Henry with the opportunity to do exactly what he wanted without anybody’s knowing. The Cooper’s Arms thought him at Colston’s, yet Colston’s had sent him home. There to kick his heels to no purpose. Mind made up, William Henry galloped off the Stone Bridge, but not in the direction of home. In the direction of Clifton.

  The steep, bluffy cone of Brandon Hill was his first stop; he scrambled all the way up to its top fancying himself a Roundhead soldier in Cromwell’s army besieging Bristol, and there stood to gaze across the lime kiln chimneys and marshlands, then to the ruins of the Royalist fort on St. Michael’s Hill. Game over, he leaped down from ledge to ledge until he reached the footpath and hopped, skipped and jumped to Jacob’s Well, which had once been the only convenient source of water for Clifton. There were houses around it now, none of them attractive to a small boy. So he gamboled on past St. Andrew’s church, turned somersaults on the springy turf of Clifton Green, and decided to walk to Manilla House, last in the row of mansions atop the hill.

  “Holloa there, young spindle-shanks!” said a friendly voice outside the stable yard attached to Boyce’s Buildings.

  “Holloa yourself, sir.”

  “No school today?”

  “The Head died,” William Henry explained briefly, and perched himself on the gate-post. “Who are you?”

  “Name’s Richard the groom.”

  “Richard is my dadda’s name too. I am William Henry.”

  Out came a horny hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  For two hours he followed Richard the groom around, patting the few horses, peering into mostly empty stalls, helping draw buckets of water from the well and fetch hay, talking merrily. At the end of it Richard the groom gave him a tankard of small beer, a hunk of bread and some cheese; greatly refreshed, William Henry waved him a cheerful goodbye and continued on up the road.

  Manilla House was as deserted as Freemantle House, Duncan House and Mortimer House—where to now?

  He was still debating his alternatives when he heard the sound of horse’s hooves behind him, and turned to discover that the rider bore a very familiar and much-loved face. “Mr. Parfrey!” he called.

  “Good lord!” said George Parfrey. “What are you doing here, Morgan Tertius?”

  William Henry had the grace to blush. “Please, sir, I am on a walk,” he said lamely. “There is no school today, and Dadda has gone to Keynsham.”

  “Ought you to be here, Morgan Tertius?”

  “Please, sir, my name is William Henry.”

  Mr. Parfrey frowned, then shrugged and held out his hand. “I see more than perhaps you know, William Henry. So be it. Hop up and come for a ride, then I will see you home.”

  Ecstasy! In all his life he had never been upon a horse! Now here he was, sitting astride the saddle in front of Mr. Parfrey, so high off the ground that looking down made him feel quite dizzy. A whole new world, like being in the top of a tree that ran! How smooth and regular the motion! How wondrous to be on a new adventure with a friend almost as best as Dadda! William Henry succumbed to absolute bliss.

  They cantered off up Durdham Down, scattering several flocks of sheep, laughing at anything and everything they chanced upon. And when William Henry let him get a word in edgeways, Mr. Parfrey revealed that he knew about lots of things besides Latin. They rode to the parapet of the Avon Gorge, where Mr. Parfrey pointed out the colors in the rock and told the eager little boy how iron tinted the grey and white of the limestone those richly ruddy pinks and plums; he pointed with his crop at the flowering plants in the summer grass and recited their names, then minutes later jokingly quizzed William Henry as to the identity of this one or that one.

  Finally the bridle path atop the gorge led them down to the Hotwells House on its ledge jutting into the Avon.

  “We may find some dinner here,” said Mr. Parfrey, letting the boy slide to the ground before dismounting. “Hungry?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “If I am to call you William Henry away from the portals of Colston’s, I think you must call me Uncle George.”

  There were very few people taking the waters in the pump room—a few consumptive, diabetic or gouty men, a very old lady and two crippled younger women. It had seen better days; the gilding had tarnished, the wallpaper was peeling, the drapes had frayed and accumulated visible layers of dirt, the spindling chairs needed new upholstery. But the sour lessee—who was still in the midst of a battle with Bristol over the rates he charged to drink the waters—provided dinner of a kind. To William Henry, accustomed to much better food at the Cooper’s Arms, it tasted of nectar and ambrosia simply because it was different—and because he shared it with such a magical companion. Who, when they were done, suggested a walk outside before they rode back to the city. The old lady and the crippled women cooed over William Henry as they left; he suffered their exclamations and pats with the same patience he used to give his dead mo
ther, a side of him that fascinated George Parfrey.

  For George Parfrey had found a magical companion too. It had been, in fact, a magical day, starting off with the news that the Head had expired during the night. The Reverend Prichard, his long dark face betraying none of the elation he felt inside (he hoped to be the new Head), was too preoccupied to take any notice of the masters once he had acquainted them with the situation. Apart from giving Harry Hobson the duty of turning the day pupils away as they arrived, he issued no orders whatsoever.

  Very well, said Mr. Parfrey to himself, I hereby declare that today is a holiday. If I remain here, Prichard or one of the others will think of something for me to do. Whereas if no one sees my face, no one will remember my existence.

  His one extravagance was a horse. Not to own—that was far beyond his slender means—but to hire on some Sundays from a stable near the gallows on St. Michael’s Hill. Mondays, he discovered when he arrived at the stable carrying his tray of watercolors and his sketchbook, offered him a wider choice of mount. The handsome black gelding he had hankered for was munching placidly on hay and no doubt expecting a day of rest after hectic Sunday excursions. Not to be. Ten minutes later Mr. Parfrey was in its saddle and trotting off across Kingsdown in the direction of the Aust road. A fine horseman, he gentled the black gelding out of its resentment and settled to enjoying his favorite pastime.

  For a moment the old depression threatened to engulf him, but the day was too glorious not to be relished to its fullest, so he tucked his loneliness and apprehensions of a bitter old age into the back of his thoughts and concentrated upon the beauty around him. At which moment, hacking up Clifton Hill to Durdham Down, he saw Morgan Tertius ahead of him. Company! The little devil, he had decided to have a holiday from responsibilities too. Then why not be devils together? A question which carried the reassurance that he would be doing the boy a service by keeping him safe.

  William Henry. The double name suited him, a nice conceit which age might perhaps confirm as a wise choice. All the masters had seen the potential in Morgan Tertius, though his beauty warped the judgment of some. As indeed it had Parfrey’s judgment, until exposure to Morgan Tertius in Latin class had shown him that the face merely reflected the beauty of the soul as a clouded mirror did the sun. What he had not seen until today was the naughty little boy, for in class William Henry was an angel. Because, the child had explained gravely as they cantered across Durdham Down, he did not want to get the cane and he did not want to be noticed.