Alexander Kent - THE INSHORE SQUADRON

It was warm in the musty-smelling room and yet Pascoe felt the sweat on his spine like ice. A stupid, crazy gesture. And for what? To help Penels, or to prove to himself that he could do it? His hanger was gone, and at any moment he might be rushed, his throat cut merely for the price of his clothes.

While he waited he became aware of the rest of the house. It was alive with furtive sounds and muffled voices. Every room must be occupied, he thought.

He looked at the girl who was holding the stone gin bottle to her breast. Thin, sunken-eyed, worn out and probably diseased to add to her misery.

She looked back at him and smiled, letting her shabby dress fall from one shoulder as she did so.

It made her look pitiful instead of provocative.

A door banged open and men's voices boomed down the stairs urgent and angry.

Pascoe walked from the room and looked up the stairway. There were three men at the top landing, and cowering against the wall was a fourth, Babbage.

The biggest of the men pointed at Pascoe and barked, 'That him?'

Pascoe noticed that he was wearing the white breeches and shirt of a sea officer and had probably been disturbed at his pleasure. Whatever the reason, it was a relief to know he was not entirely alone.

Babbage said huskily, 'Yes, sir. That's Mr Pascoe.'

The man came down the stairs slowly. He was heavily built and in his middle twenties, with thick, curly hair and a hard, aggressive face.

'Well, well, well.' He paused on the bottom stair and rocked back on his heels. 'I was going to meet you, Mr Pascoe, but I never thought you'd fall from the sky like this.'

'I don't understand?'

The big man turned and waved his arm to his companions. 'Though I suppose Mr Pascoe would be well at home here, eh, lads?'

They laughed, and 'one stooped to seize Babbage as he tried to crawl away. There was blood on his mouth and he had obviously been beaten.

'I order you to hand over that man to me, whoever you are!'

'He orders! This youth, masquerading as a King's officer, orders me!'

The woman of the house pushed past the others and placed herself between them and Pascoe.

She said angrily, 'Leave him be, damn you!, He means no harm.'

'Oh, I'm certain of that, Ruby! Mr Pascoe's own mother was a whore, and his bloody father a traitor to his country, so what harm could he do?'

Pascoe swayed on his feet, stunned by the man's grating voice. He could feel himself shivering, the anger and hate tearing at his insides like claws.

It could not be possible, was not happening. Not now, after all this time, the dreams, the pretence.

The woman was looking at him anxiously. 'You'd better be off. Lively now. I want no trouble here. I've that enough as it is.'

Pascoe brushed past her, seeing nothing but the towering, grinning face on the stairway.

'Well, Mr Pascoe?' He was enjoying it. 'Is your uncle still protecting his brother's bastard?'

Pascoe sprang forward and drove his fist into the man's face. He saw the shock and surprise, felt the pain lance up his arm from the force of the blow. But the face was still there, the unexpected strength of Pascoe's punch already bringing blood to his lip.

'Well now, you've struck me!' He dabbed his mouth, his eyes hidden in shadow. 'To be touched by the likes of you is like getting the plague! I think this can be settled, that is, if you have learned how to ape the gentleman?'

Pascoe met his challenge with sudden calmness, or was it resignation?

He heard himself say, 'Swords?'

'I think not.' The other man was still dabbing his lip, watching Pascoe, measuring his resistance, his hurt. 'Pistols I believe would be better. But before we part…'

He snapped his fingers and Pascoe found his arms being pinioned to his sides.

… I will give you a lesson in manners.'

He swung round, caught off guard, as Babbage darted past them, his head covered by his hands as he ran for the door. With a frantic gasp he dragged it open and was gone.

The big man drew back his fist. 'That's the last we'll see of him!'

Pascoe tensed for the blow which was aimed at his stomach. He was dimly aware of running feet, a sharp challenge and the sudden bang of a musket.

Major Clinton entered the doorway, swinging his black stick carelessly as he said, That was Babbage. My men challenged him but he ran.' He waited until the others had released Pascoe's arms and said, 'You were too late for him, Mr Pascoe.' He nodded to the man with the cut lip. 'But you were in time, I take it, Mr Roche?'

The man he had named as Roche shrugged. 'Just high spirits, Major. It is not forbidden for us to come here.'

Clinton snapped, `You are leaving now! And I do not care if you do serve on the admiral's staff. Your courage would not last for long in battle, I suspect!'

The three men retrieved their coats and left, but not before Pascoe had seen that Roche was a naval lieutenant, as were his companions.

'I am sorry to involve you, sir.'

Pascoe followed the marine into the wet street. Clinton 's lieutenant, Marston, and a file of marines were standing by a sprawled corpse. For Babbage at least it was over.

'I cannot discuss it further.' Clinton looked at his men. 'Get rid- of this body.' Then he fell in step beside Pascoe and added wearily, 'Roche is on the staff of the port admiral. He will never be promoted for he now has means of his own. He is a dangerous man. Did he provoke you into a challenge?'

'That is something which I cannot discuss, sir.'

Clinton remembered Herrick's face and thought otherwise.

Bolitho waited hesitantly in the neat London square and looked at the house. He had made himself walk from his temporary residence for several reasons. To exercise his leg and to give himself time to prepare what he was going to say.

He had asked Browne if he had seen Belinda Laidlaw when he had called to deliver the letter, but Browne had shaken his head.

'Just a servant, sir. It was so glum there, it was like a tomb.'

Bolitho could now understand Browne's brief description. The house was a twin of the one alongside it. Tall, elegant and of fine proportions. There was no other similarity. It looked cold and unwelcoming, and yet he had the distinct impression it was watching him, as if the whole square was holding its breath to see what a visitor was doing here.

After his walk, the bustle and noise around the many shops and wine merchants, he felt less sure of himself.

It was ridiculous. He strode up the steps and reached for the bell-pull, but the door opened before him as if by magic.

A miserable-looking footman regarded him curiously.

'Sir?'

Bolitho was in no mood for argument. He released his cloak from his throat and handed it to the footman, then his hat.

'My name is Richard Bolitho. Mrs Laidlaw is expecting me.'

As he examined his appearance in a tall, heavily framed mirror, Bolitho saw the man backing up the hallway, staring from the hat and cloak to the visitor with something like awe. Bolitho guessed that they had few guests here, and certainly not any uncouth junior flag officer.

He straightened his coat and turned to face the interior.

Everything looked old and heavy. Owned once by people now long dead, he thought.

The footman returned empty-handed. Bolitho tried to remain impassive, to hide his relief. He had expected she might refuse to see him, if only to avoid embarrassment.

The man said in a doleful tone, 'This way, sir.'

They reached a pair of fine inlaid doors on the opposite side of the house, and with great care the footman opened them together and closed them soundlessly as Bolitho stepped into the room.

It was vast, and again filled with grand furniture and imposing portraits, mostly, it appeared, of senior judges.

In a gilded chair to one side of the fire was the judge's wife. She had to be, Bolitho thought grimly. She was massive and well upholstered, like one of her chairs, and her pale features were deeply lined with disapproval.

Nearby, an open book on her lap, was Mrs Belinda Laidlaw. She wore a plain, dove-blue gown which was more like some kind of uniform than Bolitho would have expected. She was watching him steadily, as if by showing some sign of pleasure or sudden animation she would shatter the peace of the room.

Bolitho said, 'I am temporarily in London, ma'am.' He looked at the judge's wife but meant his. words for the girl. 'I asked to call, for in my profession we never know when we may touch land again.'

It sounded heavy and pompous, like the room. Perhaps it had that effect on visitors, Bolitho decided.

The old lady's arm came out from her skirt and directed Bolitho to an uncomfortable-looking chair opposite her. She pointed with a thin black stick, very like the one carried by Major Clinton.

There were some windows facing Bolitho, empty of houses or trees, so that the hard light changed the girl into a silhouette without face or expression.

The judge's wife said, 'We shall have tea presently, er…' She peered at Bolitho's epaulettes. `Captain, is it?'

The girl said quickly, 'Rear-admiral, ma'am.'

Bolitho caught the tension in her tone and knew that the judge's wife had been told all about him and probably a lot more beside.

'I am afraid such things are beyond our calling.' She nodded slowly. 'I gather you stayed at Lord Swinburne's Hampshire estate?' It sounded like an accusation.

Bolitho said, 'He was very helpful.' He tried again. 'It seems likely I shall be rejoining the squadron directly.' He turned towards her silhouette. 'I trust you are settled in, as we sailors say?'

'I am comfortable, thank you.'

And that was how it continued. A question from Bolitho which was immediately parried. A mention of some place he had been or the animals, ships or natives he had seen in far-off countries which was politely ended with a nod or a patient smile.

'The judge is so often called away to administer the law that we rarely find the time to travel.'

Bolitho shifted his leg carefully. She always spoke of the judge. Never by name or as a husband. Her remark about travel made Bolitho's descriptions of life at sea seem like idle enjoyment.

She was saying in the same dry voice, 'The war brings so much lawlessness. The judge is hard put to complete his work. But he is dedicated, and duty should be reward enough.'

Bolitho could pity any man appearing before thisparticular judge for sentence. If he was anything like his wife there would be neither mercy nor compassion.

A bell chimed, the sound echoing down the passageways like a funeral lament.

The old lady poked a log on the fire with her stick and said coldly, 'More visitors, Mrs Laidlaw? We are becoming popular.'

The footman crept soundlessly through the door and said, 'I crave pardon for disturbing you, ma'am.' He sounded as if he was used to being cowed. 'There is another naval gentleman here.' He shifted his gaze to Bolitho. 'He is asking to see you, sir.'

Bolitho got up from the chair. He could almost feel the girl watching his efforts to appear relaxed and free of pain.

'I am sorry. It must be urgent."

As he left the room he heard the old lady say, I do not think we will need tea, Simkins."

Browne was standing in the lower hall, his cloak spotted with droplets of rain.

Bolitho asked, 'What is it? The French, are they at sea?'

Browne glanced quickly around him. 'It concerns your nephew, sir.' He reached out as if to reassure him. 'He is safe, but it was a dose-run thing. Captain Herrick sent a fast rider to let you know at once.'

In short, disjointed sentences Browne explained about Pascoe and his meeting with Lieutenant Roche.