The Blighted Cliffs (38 page)

'I
trust Sally hasn't said anything to Miss Hoare?'

Isobel
grimaced. 'Not yet. She keeps on giggling over it though, and you
never know what's coming out when she opens her mouth.'

A
look of concern passed her face. 'But we'll not talk of that. How was
the ball? Better than the
Red
Cow
?'

'The
drink was better, but the company worse,' I said. 'And none of the
girls could touch you.'

'Miss
Hoare said there was a navy officer there who was ever so handsome.
Not that she said that, mind, but she did praise his Christian virtue
and manly bearing, which is what she means by it.'

'That
was probably Davenant. She didn't say anything about a drunken lout
of an officer who monopolized the punchbowl, insulted his superiors,
and pinched the arses of a few too many young ladies?'

'She'd
certainly have said if you'd pinched her arse.' Isobel's face was
screwed up like a bulldog's. 'But I ought to be slapping yours, if
that's what you were doing.'

'Only
because yours wasn't there,' I consoled her.

'One
day it will be. Will you take me to a ball?'

'Of
course,' I said, straight off, though how she would pass in society I
could not imagine. No worse than I, most likely.

Isobel
treated me to an exposition of how she imagined the ball would be,
from the diamonds at her throat to the gilded carriage that would
collect her at the end, and I listened with good humour, enjoying the
sound of her voice and the animation of her face as she described
each detail. I did not share my own recollections of dismal food,
ghastly conversation, and some idiot (commonly me) being ill in the
drawing room; she could discover all that for herself, if she ever
got there.

But
while Isobel talked, and I sipped my drink, I had half an eye on the
rest of the room. When I'd entered it had been doing brisk business,
but now more of the tables than not were empty, and every few minutes
another knot of people would shuffle out of the door. None entered.
The landlord mopped forlornly at his counter, rarely troubled for
another drink. And the general noise of the place had dwindled to
bare whispers, with the exception of Isobel's clear running voice.

The
landlord squeezed round the end of his bar and came to our table.

'The
rest of that bottle of wine, thank you,' I said.

His
square face creased with a frown. 'It's not that, sir,' he said
reluctantly. 'But might I ask, would you be a naval gentleman?'

'Naval,
yes; gentleman, sometimes. What the devil concern is it of yours?'

'I
thought so.' The man rubbed his hands together. 'It's just that, as
you is, I'll be askin' you to leave.'

'I
beg your pardon? Here am I, braving the salty brine and manning the
wooden walls that protect men like you, landlord, from the
depredations of our enemies, and you tell me that I cannot even enjoy
a drink with a girl in your house? What sort of gratitude is that,
sir?'

'Oh,
I appreciates what you does.' He wiped his hands on his smock. 'But
you see, sir, you're worryin' the other customers. They're afraid
you're on the press.'

'The
press gang?' I could not help but laugh at him. 'Do you see a crew of
doughty boatswains with cudgels and cutlasses about me? Do you not
think that if I wanted to round up seamen, I could contrive a better
place for it than the most landward tavern in Dover?'

'Well,
yes, sir. But that don't stop you frightin' 'em.' He looked at
Isobel.
'Please, Miss Isobel - Mrs Dawson, that is to say. You'd not want it
said that you were 'ere either.'

It
was a clumsy threat, but it served its purpose.

'All
right.' Isobel stood. 'We'd best go, Mr Jerrold. Don't want to
intrude.'

I
found it offensive to surrender to his bluntness, but I could only
follow her lead and get to my feet. Before I went, though, I put my
face very close to the barman's.

'You
may get your way frightening little girls,' I told him, far braver
than I felt. 'But next time, I will come with a party of well armed
sailors, and stay here enjoying your hospitality until you can't get
the rats under your counter to take your drink, and you're forced
into the poorhouse.' I banged my glass down on the table and swept
out. Before he could decide to take offence.

Isobel
took my arm as we walked down the road. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'We
should've gone somewhere more private.' She paused, then tugged at my
hand. 'Come on.'

She
led me, almost at a run, to the end of the road, but instead of
turning in towards the square, she continued a few paces and then
ducked between two mournful-looking houses into the open space
beyond. My knee banged into something hard and I cursed.

'What
was that?'

'A
gravestone, I think,' she answered lightly. Her breath came in small
gasps after the exertion.

'A
gravestone? Where the devil are we?'

She
put a finger to her lips. 'Shhh,' she said. 'Not the devil. Jesus.
We're in the burying ground.'

And
before I could remonstrate with her about her curious notions of
romance, she was skipping off through the headstones, leaving me no
choice but to stumble after her as best I could.

Soon
it began to seem that the stones were in a poor state of repair, but
so intent was I on following Isobel - she had a cat's agility in the
dark - that it was only when she at length stopped against an
enormous pillar that I realized we were no longer among the graves,
but surrounded by rubble. The ground was paved, though weeds and
grasses had long since broken through the slabs, but there were no
walls surrounding us, only a handful of monolithic pillars, upright
fragments of some ancient building. They towered over us, and I could
see where broken arches still vaulted out into nothingness from atop
them. It did not look safe, nor did it feel romantic, though it was
certainly private. The thin curve of the waning moon shone overhead,
casting everything in a mysterious silver light, but I confess I
found it more eerie than beautiful. Isobel, though, seemed quite at
case.

'I've
seen this before,' I realized. 'From the market square. Those ruined
arches protruding above the rooftops.'

For
some reason best known to themselves, the people of Dover seemed to
tolerate the fractured remains of a broken church just behind the
centre of the town. Perhaps it appealed to their aesthetic.

'That's
right,' said Isobel. 'But it's private enough for us.'

I
could not disagree. Although the market square was barely a few yards
away, in the darkness the ruins felt terribly remote.

Isobel
stepped backwards into a corner formed by two of the uprights. 'And
even if they did want us at the
Red
Cow
,
there's some things decent people can't do in a public house.' She
placed her hand over mine, and pressed it against her chest.

It
was not the venue I would have chosen for a seduction. For one thing,
it was bitingly cold; for another, our ghoulish surroundings had me
tense with anxiety. I could barely concentrate on Isobel, for I was
perpetually straining my ears for any sign that we were not alone.
The night was quiet, but not still, and every crack and creak from
around us convinced me that a gang of robbers would be upon us in
moments. Still, there was no denying the warmth of Isobel's hand on
mine, nor mine on her. She tipped her mouth up, and I took it in my
own, pressing her body against the stone as I did. She moaned softly,
and wrapped her hands around my back to pull me yet harder onto her.
I slid my hand down, squeezing her cold thigh through the thin wool
of her dress.

There
is little exaggerating how dangerous a ruined churchyard at night can
feel when you are there alone, and by nature I was particularly
sensitive to it, but Isobel's passion, and the sweet noises she made,
blunted the edge of my fear, distracted my senses. Which is why the
rough hands that suddenly seized my shoulders came as a complete
surprise. They pulled me away from her and thrust me to the ground; I
banged my head against a jagged piece of masonry, and yelped. Isobel
screamed, but another hand covered her mouth and stifled it. I was
almost insensible with pain and terror, but as I rolled over, jabbing
myself in the side on another rock as I did so, I saw a gleam of
steel caught in the moonlight. It was in the hand of a dark figure
whose low hat and high collar admitted to no description other than
stockiness, and it hung over Isobel's face with naked menace.

"E
don't like yer nobbin' with the navy,' a thick voice was saying. 'An'
'e surely don't like yet whorin' with 'em.' The knife went up. 'An'
yer knows what 'appens when 'e don't like somethin'.'

I
seem to remember that I consciously decided I would do nothing, that
I was best left out of whatever horrific entanglement Isobel had
found herself in. Whether in the ensuing seconds I changed my
opinion, or whether my body rebelled against the mind's natural
cowardice, I do not know; but, without any intent, I found myself
staggering to my feet, stumbling towards her assailant.

There
was a grunt of surprise
from behind Isobel. A second man, as anonymously dressed as his
counterpart, was standing there holding her arms to her back. The
sound must have alerted the one with the knife for he paused in his
stroke and turned.

'Impatient,
is yer?' he said nastily. 'I was goin' to see to yer next. But I
ain't 'ticular, if yer not gentleman enough to let the lady go
first.'

Reversing
his wrist, he drove the pommel of his knife hard into my stomach; I
folded like a bedsheet and fell back to the ground, managing to jar
my elbow on the same sharp stone. Through mottled eyes I saw the man
above me take a piece of sacking from his belt. Before I could react,
he had pulled it open and wrestled it fiercely over my pounding head.
Dust and chaff filled my eyes, clinging to the tears that had welled
over my cheeks, and suddenly I was in a blind darkness. I could hear
screams from Isobel, cut abruptly, terribly short; then there was a
sharp pain in my ankles as a thick rope bit tightly into them.

'Yer
seen what come to yer mate Webb,' said the voice, invisible but
horribly near. 'And the same'll come to you if yer don't keep clear
o' where you shouldn't. See?'

A
booted toe crashed into my ribs to punctuate the threat. I tried to
scream, but all I got was a mouthful of blood and dust. And another
cracking blow.

'Maybe
yer should take some sea air to make yer better,' came an unhelpful
suggestion, coupled with a well-aimed punch to the side of my head
which had me gagging into the sacking. 'That's 'ow yer supposed to
'unt the owlers. Not askin' questions o' them what's far too grand
fer you.'

They
continued in the same vein for some minutes, kicking me around that
churchyard until I felt quite as broken as the stones about me. Then,
through the pounding sickness in my head, I heard a low whistle; with
a final onslaught of desperate threats, the blows stopped and the
noise lapsed into silence. Of Isobel there was no sound, though that
I realized only later. For the moment, I could feel nothing beyond my
own agony.