Pieces of Eight. John Drake
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long brown teeth that were one reason–though not the only one–that he’d so seldom smiled in life.
“Good God!” said Captain Peter Garland. “Cover him up, and get the women out of here!” He looked to Mr Bains, the house steward, and then to the two menservants, and finally to the herd of maids and cooks peering in horror through the chapel door. But none of them moved.
“Pah!” said the captain, and set about doing the job himself. A sea-service officer in his thirties, Garland had faced shot and shell, and this wasn’t the first time he’d dealt with dead men and the pieces of them. He stepped up to the altar, laid aside the wooden cross, ripped the white altar cloth from its moorings and draped it across the body of his late brother-in-law, taking care that, whatever else showed, the face was covered.
“So!” said Captain Garland, looking away from the corpse to the bloodstains on the whitewashed walls. “What happened?”
Mr Bains was trying his best, but he was an elderly man, long in the reverend’s service, who–along with the rest of the congregation–had thought him the font of all wisdom. And now here was the reverend dead and murdered in his own chapel! Bains stood weeping and wringing his hands with his entire world overturned, the women wailing at the sight of him and the two male servants snivelling besides.
“Brace up, man!” cried Captain Garland. “Brace up all of you, dammit.”
“Yes, sir,” said Bains. “Sorry, sir. We didn’t know if you would come.”
“What?” said Garland, “D’you think that man–” he pointed at the corpse “–could keep me from my sister? My Rebecca–her that was a mother to me when our own ma died?”
“God bless you, sir,” said Bains.
“God bless you,” said the rest.
“So! Where is she? And m’nephew?”
“Upstairs, sir. In the parlour.”
They were halfway up the stairs when three blows sounded on the front door knocker, and everyone jumped. Again nobody moved so Garland went down and opened the door himself. Outside was a carriage and pair that he’d not even heard arrive, what with his mind so full of other things. A coachman stood in the doorway in his caped cloak and livery hat, wrapped in scarf and mittens against the cold.
“Ah!” said Garland, peering out into the miserable grey November where the coach body swayed as a fat gentleman in boots and greatcoat was helped down by one of his footmen. “Sir Charles!” he said, and ran forward to shake his friend’s hand.
“Captain Garland!” said the other. “Came as soon as I got your note.” He was a middle-aged, heavily overweight man, who moved slowly and breathed with difficulty, except when standing still or sitting down. “T’aint my jurisdiction, this,” he cautioned, “and the proper authorities will need to be informed.” he peered at Garland, “You do know that, don’t you?”
“Yes-yes-yes!” But you must have experience of such cases.”
“What cases?”
“Damned if I know, Sir Charles. It was only chance that I happened to be in London and Bains knew where to find me. I sent for you the moment I heard…” He looked around. “I’ve not set foot in this house in years!”
“Have you not?” said the other, and Garland saw that all eyes were on him.
“Now then!” he cried, clasping his hands behind his back. “Silence and pay heed! This gentleman is Sir Charles Wainwright, Police Magistrate at Bow Street, who is here to take this matter in hand.” He looked at his friend. “Sir Charles…?” he said.
Sir Charles took charge. Getting the basic facts from Captain Garland, he directed a number of sharp questions at the reverend’s servants, then stumped into the chapel–respectfully doffing his hat as he did so–and poked the cloth off the corpse with his walking stick.
“Bless my soul!” he said. “Not the sweetest sight, is he?”
“No,” agreed Garland.
Sir Charles looked round the chapel, noting its severe simplicity, disdain of decoration, and rows of plain wooden chairs.
“What denomination worships here?” he asked. “Quaker? Moravian?”
“Presbyterian,” said Garland. “A branch, at any rate: ‘Church of the Revelationary Evangelists’. Or at least that’s what they were calling themselves when last I was here.”
“Aye,” said Wainwright, nodding, “these dissenters are morbidly fissiparous.”
“They’re what?”
“Dividing: always dividing. That’s what you get for denying the authority of the bishops!”
“Hmm,” said Garland. “Well, he was very strong in his beliefs, my brother-in-law. It’s why I was turned out of his house–for I used to be one of them, d’you see,” he shrugged. “But I was in love with the service, and wanted to be like my shipmates and say chaplain’s prayers.”
Sir Charles turned from the hideous corpse, looked the chapel up and down, and sniffed.
“Place stinks of soap and polish. Never seen anywhere so clean in all my life, I do declare!”
“Huh!” said Garland. “That’s the reverend! Detested dirt of all kinds. Every stick and pot scrubbed, and the servants made to bathe daily in a wash-house out the back.”
“What?” said Sir Charles, incredulous. “Every day? It’s a wonder they didn’t leave him.”
“Not they! Not once he’d got his hooks into ’em. Terrified, they were.”
“Of him?”
“Him and his good friend the Devil!”
“What about the family? How did he treat them?”
For a moment Captain Garland seemed lost for words. He was a plain man bred up to a hard service where a loud voice satisfied all needs of communication…but that wouldn’t do now.
“There’s only his wife–m’sister Rebecca–and her son,” he said. “And Rebecca…well, she was a woman, and to him all women were damned as pedlars of lust, while children were damned as fruits of lust…” He bowed his head in memory, “He used to say to them…he used to say to m’poor sister and her boy–and I heard this m’self, mind–he used to say…” Captain Garland stood silent as he tried to bring himself to repeat the words. Finally he shook his head, and rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes.
He looked at Sir Charles. “He weren’t very nice to them. Can we leave it at that?”
“Bless my soul!” said Sir Charles, for Garland had shed tears. “Come along, Captain. Enough of this–let’s see the widow.”
The stairs to the first floor were a fearful obstacle to Sir Charles, and it was a long, slow climb, but finally–led by the miserable Bains–he and Garland entered the front parlour: another fiercely scrubbed room, almost bare of furnishings, where they found the reverend’s wife and son, sitting waiting in a pair of Windsor armchairs.
“Good day, ma’am,” said Sir Charles, advancing towards her, then stopping short as he saw the blood spattered over her clothes. The woman sat unmoved. She was a tired creature: wrinkled and prematurely old, with wispy hair and sad eyes.
“Ma’am?” repeated Sir Charles. But she never even blinked.
“Rebecca?” said Garland in a hushed voice, shocked at the sight of her. “It’s me, m’dear. Little Peter that sat on your knee…” Odd as the words were from a grown man, they stirred the woman and she looked up at them.
“I did it,” she said. “And it may not be denied, for ‘Every man’s work shall be made manifest’–First