CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH
Having to be early at his new job, Martin was hurried in the morning. When he left after a quick breakfast, Dick Gollop was still a-bed; he had only returned from his night duty about five o’clock. So Martin had no opportunity of telling the constable of the strange incident he had witnessed in the night, and he refrained from mentioning it to the others for fear of alarming them.
He was still greatly puzzled, and his mind was full of the matter as he walked to Mr. Faryner’s shop in Pudding Lane. There was no reason why Mr. Seymour should not have a box delivered to him. But why had the messenger come secretly by night? What was the danger? And what was the meaning of the mysterious reference to the sloop in the river?
These questions were driven from his thoughts for a time by his work. Mr. Faryner praised him for coming punctually, gave him a few odd jobs to do, and then sent him out on the morning round.
In due course he arrived at the goldsmith’s house, and once more made his way to the back entrance. Leaving his basket just inside the door, he took the four loaves intended for Mr. Slocum’s household up the stairs to the kitchen on the first floor.
Passing the hall landing, he noticed that the door of a small room which was usually kept locked now stood ajar. The fact did not arouse any particular curiosity, and he went on to the kitchen and handed the bread to the friendly cook.
“I’m glad you are early,” she said, “though it wouldn’t have mattered so much this morning. The master isn’t up yet. He was out late last night, and I warrant will be in a rare tantrum when he wakes. And how do you like your new work?”
“Better when I’ve finished than when I begin,” replied Martin, smiling. “The basket is very heavy at the start, and it makes me very tired this hot weather.”
“Never mind; it’s something to be working for the King’s baker, and I hope you’ll get on. There now! What did I say!”
Mr. Slocum had just called “Sally!” from below stairs, and his voice certainly sounded far from good-tempered.
“Coming, sir,” the cook answered, and hurried to the head of the staircase.
“I want you to go at once to the dairyman’s in Milk Street and complain of the mouldy cheese he sent me. Tell him it’s not fit for pigs, and if he can’t serve me better I’ll deal elsewhere.”
“Very good, sir,” said Sally. “I’ll just fetch my shawl.”
“Nonsense, woman; you don’t need your shawl a hot day like this. Get away at once, and be sure you don’t mince matters.”
Martin heard Mr. Slocum’s loud angry tones distinctly. The cook hurried downstairs, her master talking at her all the time. As soon as she had left the house Mr. Slocum dashed up the stairs, and Martin realised that his retreat was cut off. He had no fear of his old employer, but was not at all eager to meet him.
By the time Mr. Slocum reached the kitchen door, Martin had stepped back into the shelter afforded by the jutting corner of a large cupboard. Mr. Slocum came in hurriedly, turned the key in the door, and went straight across the room to another door that led into a passage and thence into his private room.
Martin waited, undecided whether to go at once or to remain until he was sure the coast was clear. Just as he was on the point of moving he heard Mr. Slocum returning, and thought it better to stay where he was.
The goldsmith’s movements were much slower now, and when he came into view Martin had a shock of surprise. The man was carrying a box, brass-bound at the corners, exactly like the box which had been delivered to Mr. Seymour the previous night. He passed across the kitchen, unlocked the door, and began to descend the stairs.
Martin felt trapped. He was lucky in having escaped notice so far; he could hardly hope not to be observed if Mr. Slocum returned. And hearing Mr. Slocum enter the room on the half-landing he hurried after him on tip-toe, hoping to slip by unseen.
Just as he reached the half-landing Mr. Slocum, empty-handed, came out of the little room, shutting the door behind him. Martin bent, and tried to dash by; but Mr. Slocum heard him, turned quickly, shot out his hand and caught him by the tail of his coat.
“Who on earth are you?” cried the goldsmith. “No use wriggling; I have you fast.” And then, as he caught sight of Martin’s face: “You! You scoundrel! Where have you come from? What business have you here? Didn’t I tell you never to show your face again?”
“I am working for Mr. Faryner, and have just brought your bread,” Martin replied.
“Then what are you hanging about for? Why are you hiding in my house?”
“The cook was called away before she had time to pay me.”
“And you are skulking here, stealing for all I know. I’ll send for a constable, and give you in charge on suspicion of loitering with the intention of committing a felony.”
“You may do that if you please, Mr. Slocum,” said Martin with spirit. “But you have nothing against me, and you will look rather silly.”
At this Mr. Slocum lifted his left hand to clout Martin, who took advantage of a slight relaxing of the grip of the other hand to wrench himself away and leap down the stairs. He picked up his basket and fled out into the yard, leaving Mr. Slocum shouting threats and curses behind him.
The sequel to this unlucky meeting was seen later in the day. On returning from his afternoon round Martin found that Mr. Slocum had sent a message to the baker, saying that if the new errand boy was sent again to the house he would transfer his custom.
“You were impudent, I suppose,” said Mr. Faryner, “and you won’t suit me, and that’s a pity, for I’d taken a fancy to you. It’s a lesson to me to make inquiries before I hire a boy.”
Martin thought it was high time to give his employer a little information. He related the morning’s incident, not mentioning the box; some instinct prompted him to keep that to himself.
“There was nothing much to be angry about,” said the baker. “Have you told me everything?”
“I haven’t told you that I was once in Mr. Slocum’s employment, and he dismissed me for——”
“Impudence? Confess now.”
“No, sir; for fighting one of the apprentices.”
“Bless me, I’ve done that myself,” said Mr. Faryner, with a laugh. “But come now, I can’t afford to lose a good customer. I daren’t send you on that round again. Let me see.”
He stuck his hands into his belt and looked questioningly at Martin.
“Can you row a boat?” he asked.
“I’ve done it often,” said Martin. “My father was a sea-captain, and I’ve helped my friends among the watermen more than once.”
“Capital! Then I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll put another boy on your round, and I’ll give you the river. You’ll take supplies to the ships in the Pool. What do you say to that?”
“I’ll say thank you, sir; I shall like it very much.”
“Very well, then. You see, I’ve taken a fancy to you.”
CHAPTER THE TWELFTH
When Martin reached home that evening he told his friends of the approaching change in his work that was due to Mr. Slocum. Susan Gollop’s red cheeks grew redder as she listened to him.
“That Slocum is a monster!” she cried indignantly. “I’d like to give him a piece of my mind, that I would!”
“Now don’t you go putting your oar in, my woman,” said the constable. “I don’t like the man, but he was within his rights in turning out of the house the boy he dismissed for misbehaviour——”
“Misbehaviour, indeed!” Susan interrupted. “What’s his own behaviour like? Tell me that. Mr. Greatorex ought to know what a temper the man has got, and if he didn’t live so far away I’d tell him myself. Martin shall write it down for me, being no scholar myself, and we’ll send Mr. Greatorex a letter.”
“Avast there!” said Dick. “Look at it sensible, Sue. Mr. Greatorex is the owner of the ship, so to put it, and he’s made Slocum captain. ’Tain’t for us to question his right so to do. And d’you think he’s going to bother his head about the ship’s boy?”
“What ship’s boy?”
“Why, Martin, of course. In a manner of speaking he was the ship’s boy aboard that craft.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” exclaimed Susan. “You and your ship’s boy—and Martin the son of a captainandowner! Gollop, I wonder at your ignorance.”
“Well, my dear, what you can’t help, make the best of. Let things alone, that’s what I say, and maybe Martin’ll never meet Slocum again, and so it won’t matter.”
Martin was not long in deciding that Mr. Slocum had really done him a good turn. He liked his new job—to deliver bread to the ships in the Pool. Their officers, coming into harbour after long voyages, were glad to get a change from the hard, mouldy, and often worm-bitten biscuit which they had to put up with at sea. Mr. Faryner’s excellent loaves found a ready sale among them.
At least once, sometimes twice, a day Martin rowed out from the steps below London Bridge to the vessels that lay against the wharves or at anchor in the river. Sometimes he would send up his bread in a basket lowered over the side; sometimes, after tying his painter to the anchor chains, he would himself swarm up a rope ladder to the deck. Now and then he had to scramble across the lighters surrounding a vessel that was taking in or discharging cargo.
He found all this thoroughly interesting and enjoyable. It was much easier to carry his basket in a boat than to carry it on his arm. He liked to meet and chat with the jolly sailor-men and to see the insides of the ships whose outsides he knew so well. If he could not go to sea himself, he felt that the next best thing was to have something to do with those who did, even if it were only supplying them with bread.
And he was well satisfied with his change of masters. Mr. Faryner, he found, was just as quick-tempered as Mr. Slocum, but he was not mean or spiteful or unjust.
One Saturday when Martin had made a slight mistake in accounting for the money he had received from customers, the baker flew into a rage.
“You’re either a ninny or a rascal!” he cried. “And I don’t know which is worse. Can’t you add two and two? You’re no good to me. Boys are the plague of my life, none of them any good. If they’re not saucy they’re stupid, and if they’re not stupid they’re——. Here, get out of my sight, and don’t stare at me as if I were a fat pig at a fair!”
Martin was careful to keep out of the angry man’s way, and wondered whether, when he received his week’s wages, he would be told to find another job. To his surprise Mr. Faryner seemed to have forgotten the matter that had upset him.
“Here you are, my lad,” he said, as he handed Martin his five shillings. “And you had better take two loaves home to-night instead of one; there are some over, and they’ll be too stale to sell by Monday.”
Like many another quick-tempered man’s, Mr. Faryner’s bark was worse than his bite.
When Martin got home that evening he found Susan Gollop in a great state of excitement.
“I don’t know what’s coming to us all,” she said. “Only think of it! When Mounseer came back from his walk this afternoon he found his room all upside-down and higgledy-piggledy, and me in the house all the time, and never heard a sound!”
“What happened?” asked Martin, remembering the former attempts on the Frenchman’s room.
“Why, someone got in, front or back, I don’t know how, and picked his padlock, and rummaged the room, forced open his cupboard, slit up his mattress, and even ripped the lining of his coat on the peg.”
“But why? What were they seeking?” Martin asked in his amazement. “He seems to have nothing valuable except his sword.”
“Ah! That’s what puzzles me. And what’s more, Mounseer didn’t seem very upset when he came in and found everything topsy-turvy. He just looked round the room, and then he smiled—fancy that; smiled!—as if it was just a muddle made by children.
“ ‘You take it easy, sir,’ says I, and he gave his shoulders a shrug—you know his way—and said, ‘Be so good, madam’—he called me madam—‘to help me arrange.’ And when we were in the middle of putting things straight, who should come in but Mr. Seymour.
“ ‘Dear me!’ says he, all astonished like, ‘what in the world is the matter?’ And just as I was opening my mouth, Mounseer took me up short. ‘Nothing in the world, sir,’ says he, ‘I thank you!’ And he goes straight to the door and shuts it in Mr. Seymour’s face.
“I was fair took aback; where were his French manners? Always so polite to me, calling me madam and all, and yet almost rude to Mr. Seymour!
“Mounseer must have took a dislike to him, that’s all I can say, and very queer it is, for Mr. Seymour is a nice, pleasant-spoken gentleman, with always a ‘Good-day, Mrs. Gollop!’ or ‘Very warm, Mrs. Gollop!’ whenever I meet him on the stairs.”
Martin said nothing to this, though recent incidents had made him uncomfortable, and inclined to share in Mounseer’s evident distrust of the mysterious lodger on the top floor. His doubts were deepened by something that happened that very night.
He was disturbed from a sound sleep by slight noises from the waste land at the rear of the house. They were louder than they had been on the previous occasion, and he guessed that the man below had had more difficulty in attracting Mr. Seymour’s attention.
But things happened as before. There was a short, murmured exchange of words between the two men; the speaker below went away, Mr. Seymour came with scarcely a sound down the stairs. Martin reached his post near the top of the basement staircase in time to hear the same husky voice outside the front door say: “The sloop is back in the river.”
Again Mr. Seymour opened the door wide, and the other man brought in a brass-bound box.
“It’s heavier this time,” said Mr. Seymour. “You must give me a hand with it upstairs.”
“It’s not safe. You’ve got slippers; my sea-boots make too much noise.”
“Take them off, and walk in your stockings!” said Mr. Seymour, impatiently.
The other man growled, but came forward, set the box on the floor, and sat on it while he removed his boots. His features were still concealed from Martin by Mr. Seymour’s figure between him and the candle half-way down the hall. He stood up.
“Heave ho,” he muttered.
And then Martin started, and instinctively shrank back a little. When he looked out again the two men, carrying the box between them, were full in the light of the guttering candle, and in the larger of them he recognised the black-bearded stranger whom he had first seen at the river stairs in the company of Mr. Slocum, and whom he had rowed down to Deptford in Jack Boulter’s wherry.
CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH
The astonishing discovery that Mr. Seymour and Blackbeard, as he called the stranger to himself, had dealings in common kept Martin awake for a good many hours.
He acknowledged that there was no reason why they should not have business relations, but there seemed to be something underhand in these stealthy visits by night.
When he got up in the morning he went straight into Dick Gollop’s room, and roused him.
“What do you want?” asked the constable, sleepily. “It’s not my watch yet.”
“Wake up and listen!” replied Martin.
“Been fighting again, eh?”
“No. Do wake up; it’s something you ought to know.”
“Well, spin your yarn, and don’t be long about it, or my eyes’ll shut, and then my ears won’t be no manner of good.”
Martin wasted no words in recounting the story of Blackbeard’s two midnight visits and the conveying up to Mr. Seymour’s room of the two brass-bound boxes. Gollop began to snore in the middle of it, but was roused again by a vigorous shake.
“And you spoil a man’s sleep for that!” the constable grumbled. “I wouldn’t have thought it of you!”
“But surely——”
“Now, look here, my lad!” said Gollop, raising himself on one elbow, “don’t you go for to teach me anything about the law.”
“I wasn’t going——”
“Stow your gab and hark to me! Ain’t I a constable, and therefore a man of law? Well, then, I tell you there’s nothing in the law to prevent a man, two men, forty men, bringing a box, two boxes, forty boxes, into a house at any watch o’ the night, dog-watch included.”
“But——”
“Don’t interrupt. If so be I was to run athwart the course of a man conveying a box in the middle watches it ’ud be my bounden duty to hail him and ask where he was bound for—if ’twas in the street, mind you, and I was on my rounds. But when a man has got across his own threshold—set his foot on his own deck in a manner of speaking—then I question him at my peril.”
“Couldn’t you search the house?”
“Not being an inward-bound ship, nor me a customs officer, I couldn’t, not without a warrant.”
“Why not get a warrant?” asked Martin.
“Why not? Because there’s no reason to think there’s anything contraband in them boxes; and, what’s more, because I’m dead sleepy. So just you set a course for your baker’s shop, my lad; what you can’t help, make the best of.”
Martin was by no means satisfied that the constable’s exposition of the law was sound, but it was clearly impossible to do anything more with him until he had finished his sleep.
That morning, Martin, in the course of his duty, boarded a vessel moored near Wapping which he had already visited several times, and where he had established friendly relations with the cook.
“Two quarterns to-day, and mind they’re not stale,” said the cook.
“We never have any stale; our bread sells like hot cakes,” said Martin.
“Well, there’s a new customer for you astern there.”
The cook pointed to a vessel at anchor a few cables’ lengths down the river.
“Why, isn’t that the Portugal ship that was repairing at Deptford?” Martin asked.
“Ay, that’s her. She came up out of the yard on the tide yesterday.”
“I saw her in the yard not long ago. She’s had her mainmast shot away by the French, they said.”
“True, that was the yarn. She’s a queer sort of vessel, by all accounts. The crew are all black-haired men, but that you’d expect, being Portugals or Levantines, or summat outlandish. What’s queer is that they’re never allowed leave on shore. Even in Deptford, when the ship was being overhauled, they had to sling their hammocks in an old warehouse on the riverside. They was marched about like a lot of prisoners—conveyed there and back by the officers—and a dark-looking lot they are too.
“The captain’s a white man—white, says I, meaning he’s not a nigger, for his face is the colour of beer, and his hair as black as coal, and his beard like a horse’s mane. And it’s well his crew are foreigners, for true-born Englishmen wouldn’t stand that sort of treatment; there’d be mutiny aboard, trust me. But there’s no proper spirit in those Portugals; I don’t call ’em men.”
“They’re men enough to eat English bread, I expect,” said Martin.
“See that you get English money. I wouldn’t trust ’em far,” declared the cook.
Martin laughed as he went down the side. He had already got one or two new customers for his master, and he was so much interested in this Portugal vessel that he felt rather excited at the prospect of boarding her.
But as he rowed towards her he began to have qualms. It was members of her crew that had chased him that night when he had rowed Boulter’s wherry down to Deptford and picked up the fugitive boy. He remembered their wild looks and savage cries; above all, he remembered the face of the man who had urged them on—the man who had been his passenger—Blackbeard himself. What if he were recognised when he ran alongside the vessel?
This idea daunted him, and swinging the boat round, he headed up the river. But before he was half-way back to London Bridge he wished he had taken the risk. After all, what had he to fear? Blackbeard might not be aboard the ship; the crew had seen him only indistinctly in the dusk, and they had been more intent on the boy he had taken into the boat than on himself.
Further, suppose Blackbeard did recognise him, what then? He would know him only as the rower of the wherry, who had allowed a boy swimming in the river to climb into his boat for safety. There was nothing in that; anyone else might have done the same. Blackbeard could not know that he lived in the same house as Mr. Seymour, and was aware of his mysterious visits to that gentleman.
But though he repented his timidity, he felt that he had come too far to return now. As it turned out, he was glad of his decision, for in the evening, just before closing time at the shop, when he was sweeping up the flour and breadcrumbs that littered the floor, and had his back to the door, he was startled to hear behind him the husky voice of the man he had been thinking about.
“Pardon, sir,” said the voice; and Martin noticed that it had a foreign accent, not at all like that in which Blackbeard had spoken to Mr. Seymour.
He glanced over his shoulder, thinking he might be mistaken; but no, he could not mistake that swarthy face and strangely-trimmed beard.
“Pardon, sir, are you the baker as send bread to the ships on the river?”
“I am, to be sure,” said Mr. Faryner.
“Then I beg you send three breads regular all the days to theSanta Mariawhat lie by Wapping.”
“Are you the captain?”
“I am so.”
“Very well, I will send the bread, and you will pay on the spot?”
“Without doubt, yes, I will pay. Good-night.”
CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH
Before Martin started on his river journey next morning, Mr. Faryner impressed upon him that he must not leave bread upon theSanta Mariawithout payment.
“I’ve been done before now,” said the baker. “I’ve given credit to foreign captains and they’ve sailed away without settling. Once bit, twice shy.”
Martin visited his regular customers as usual, then rowed on to the Portugal vessel, which lay some distance from the other ships, and was the last for that morning’s delivery.
His fears of the previous evening had left him, but he was conscious of a rather quickening pulse as he brought his boat under the side. Dark-browed men, leaning on the bulwarks, peered curiously at him, and he could not help wondering whether one or another of them might recognise his features.
A rope ladder hung from the waist. Catching hold of this, he looked up and called:
“Bread for theSanta Maria.”
To his surprise none of the men answered. They continued to stare at him but did not change their positions. Even if they did not understand English, he thought they might guess his errand from the sight of the loaves in his basket.
“Bread,” he called again, “ordered by the captain.”
Then someone repeated the wordcapitano, and Martin inferred from the way they talked among themselves that the captain was not on board. Emboldened by this discovery, Martin pointed to the loaves, and made signs that they were intended for the ship.
“Ha, Sebastian,” cried one of the men.
A few moments later a very fat man came from behind and pushed his way through to the side. His swarthy cheeks hung like dewlaps over his thick neck, his shirt was open, revealing a massive chest almost as dark as his face.
“What want?” he said.
“The captain ordered these loaves from the King’s baker,” Martin replied.
“Up, up,” said the man, whose English appeared to be limited to monosyllables.
Martin began to do as he had been instructed: to place the loaves in a small sack, sling this on his back, and swarm up the ladder. But when Sebastian, whom he supposed to be the cook, saw his intention, he cried “No, no,” waved him back, and let down a rope, indicating that Martin was to tie the sack to that.
There seemed to be nothing else to be done, though Martin was disappointed: he had hoped for an opportunity of seeing something of this mysterious vessel. The sack was drawn up; the man took it in his huge dirty hands, and was turning away when Martin detained him by calling out the word “money,” at the same time jingling the bag that contained his morning’s takings.
“No money; captain not here,” said the man. “Come again other time.”
“I can’t do that,” said Martin. “My master’s orders were not to go without the money.”
“Basta!” exclaimed the cook; then he turned on his heel and disappeared.
Without an instant’s hesitation, Martin hitched his painter to the rope ladder, and, swarming up, sprang on to the deck. The seamen made way for him, and looked on impassively as he darted across the deck.
The cook was on the point of entering the galley, carrying the sack slung loosely across his shoulders. He turned as he heard quick footsteps, but was too late to prevent Martin from snatching the sack away.
The man snarled an ejaculation in his own tongue, and lurched heavily forward with arms outstretched as if to recapture the sack. But Martin skipped back, held the sack behind him, and said firmly:
“I must have two shillings, or I cannot leave the bread.”
Before the cook could reply, one of the crew made a remark which drew a roar of laughter from his mates, and brought a fierce scowl upon Sebastian’s face, and a torrent of angry words from his lips. Martin noticed how his multiple chin shook as he denounced the men who were chaffing him.
He came on, threateningly, and Martin edged back, intending to toss the sack into the boat and at least save his bread. But at this moment there appeared round the side of the galley a slight, thin, dusky-faced boy, in whom Martin at once recognised the child he had vainly tried to save from his pursuers a few nights before. The boy’s manner suggested that curiosity had drawn him to see what was going on.
His appearance served to divert the cook’s wrath. Turning aside, Sebastian dealt the boy a heavy blow that struck him sprawling upon the deck, and lifted his foot to kick him as he lay. With a sudden spring Martin thrust himself between the bully and his victim.
For a moment there was dead silence; then a jesting remark from the seaman who had spoken before evoked loud guffaws from the rest of the crew. Purple with rage, Sebastian aimed a kick at Martin, who evaded it by a quick sidelong movement, at the same time swinging his sack and banging the man on the side of the head.
The sudden blow upset his balance. He toppled sideways, and with a resounding thump measured his huge bulk on the deck. The boy, meanwhile, had picked himself up and darted into the galley.
At this moment a man, somewhat better dressed than the others, came up through the open hatchway and uttered a few words in a commanding tone of voice. Martin guessed that he was demanding the meaning of the uproar. A babel of explanations broke from the crew. The newcomer silenced them with a stern gesture, his uneasy manner suggesting he was anxious to put a stop to the scene and avoid further trouble.
With a contemptuous look at Sebastian, who had now risen to his feet, he ordered him away, and opening a wallet that was slung at his belt, made signs that Martin was to take from it the money due to him. Martin picked out two shillings, emptied the sack on the deck, then clambered down the side into his boat and rowed away.
Remembering the vindictive scowl on the cook’s face as he slunk off, he wondered whether his impetuous action might not have done the boy more harm than good. He felt a great pity for the wretched-looking little fellow, with his thin cheeks and wistful, melancholy eyes.
“I wasn’t much good to him before,” he thought, “and only got myself a sore head. I suppose he is cook’s mate to that fat bully, and leads a dog’s life on board this strange ship. No doubt they’ll tell Blackbeard all about it when he comes on board, and I shouldn’t wonder if he complains to Mr. Faryner, and I shall get into hot water again. Well, I couldn’t do anything else, and as Dick Gollop says, what you can’t help, make the best of.”
CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH
Martin debated with himself whether to tell Mr. Faryner what had happened on board theSanta Maria.
“If I mention the squabble he may think I’m a quarrelsome fellow,” he said to himself ruefully. “He’ll say I get into trouble everywhere, on land and on water too, and tell me to go. And I did want to go aboard again: there’s something queer about that ship, and I’d like to know more about her.”
It happened when he got back to the shop that the baker was so much concerned with another matter that he gave Martin no opportunity of telling his story.
“I’ve got another job for you, my lad,” he said. “You know Mr. Pasqua’s coffee-house in Newman’s Court?”
“No, sir; and I don’t know where Newman’s Court is,” Martin replied.
“It’s off Cornhill; you know that. Well, Mr. Pasqua came himself this morning and ordered a quantity of rolls and cakes to be sent to his coffee-house. It’s a feather in my cap, my lad. He used to deal with Grimes of Gracious Street, but he’s dissatisfied. I never did think much of Grimes. Mr. Pasqua will be a very good customer if I please him, and I promised that the things should be sent by one o’clock, and you’re back just in time.”
“Must I go before dinner, sir?” asked Martin, who had been out in the heat since early morning.
“Before dinner? Of course you must. What does your dinner matter when there’s a new customer to be served? The basket will be ready in five minutes; you can have your dinner presently. And let me tell you, you must be very polite to Mr. Pasqua if you see him. He has been a servant, and there’s no one more likely to take offence at want of politeness in a servant than a man who has been a servant himself. And he’s a foreigner too.”
“A Frenchman, sir?”
“No, a Sicilian. I wonder you haven’t heard of him. He was the servant of an English merchant who lived in the East, and came back with his master a few years ago to make coffee for him in the Eastern way. Mr. Edwards, the merchant, had learnt the use of coffee-beans, and he was so plagued and pestered by his friends and visitors wanting to taste the new drink that he set his servant up in a coffee-house, and the man is now a good deal richer than I am. Here’s the last batch.”
A man came from the bakery bearing a tray laden with crisp brown rolls and rice-cakes. These were placed in the basket and Martin set off.
Following the fashion set by Mr. Pasqua, others had opened coffee-houses in different parts of the city; but they were frequented only by merchants and gentlemen, and Martin had never been inside one. It was therefore with considerable interest that he entered the coffee-house in Newman’s Court.
It was a large square room with a counter at one end, on which stood glistening urns, porcelain cups, and silver sugar-basins. Behind it was a young woman with golden hair piled high upon her head. A kettle hung from a hook over a wood-fire.
Here and there about the room were small tables surrounded by wooden chairs. At one side the room was partitioned off into compartments, some with doors, within which the merchants could sip their coffee and talk over their business in privacy.
Two boys were serving customers at the tables, and a small, dark, foreign-looking man was moving about, exchanging a word here and a word there.
When Martin entered with his laden basket, the foreigner, Mr. Pasqua himself, came up to him, and speaking in very good English, said:
“You are from Faryner’s, boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are in very good time. It is not yet one o’clock, and I am pleased. Grimes’s boy was late, over and over again, and I was in danger of losing my customers, the gentlemen who honour me. Tell Mr. Faryner that he has begun well. And now let me see what you have brought.”
He took a cake and a roll from the basket, and bit each of them in turn.
“Very good,” he said, as he munched, smacking his lips and blinking his eyelids. Martin was amused at the little man’s serious air.
Calling one of his boys, he bade him take the basket to the signorina. This was evidently the young woman behind the counter, but as she spoke in a very decided London accent Martin felt sure she was not a foreigner and wondered why she was so called. It was a harmless affectation of Mr. Pasqua’s, like that which, in those days of Charles II, gave Italian names to English musicians and mountebanks.
While the basket was being emptied, Mr. Pasqua said to Martin:
“You look tired, boy. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“I have never tasted it, sir,” Martin answered.
“Then this shall be a great day in your life. A cup of coffee, signorina.”
A small cup was brought to Martin. Sipping it, he made a wry face.
“Ah! You find it bitter,” said Mr. Pasqua. “But stir it with the spoon, then taste again.”
At the bottom of the cup was thick brown sugar. Martin stirred and tasted.
“That is good, eh?” said the man, smiling. “It will refresh you. And you shall have another cup when you come the next time.”
At this moment a bell rang in one of the closed compartments. Mr. Pasqua himself hurried to answer the summons. As the door opened, Martin was startled, and hastily turned his head. Seated at the little table were two men, Mr. Slocum and Mr. Seymour.
He was careful not to look towards them again, and was glad when the empty basket was brought to him and he was able to get out into the street.
His first feeling was relief that he had not been seen by Mr. Slocum. He thoroughly distrusted his former employer, and was ready to believe that he would not hesitate to make mischief with Mr. Pasqua.
“Why am I always coming across that man?” he thought.
Then as he walked back towards Pudding Lane, he grew uneasy and suspicious. It was a shock to him that Mr. Slocum and Mr. Seymour were acquainted. He had seen each of them at different times with Blackbeard, and the fact that all three were acquainted brought a crowd of recollections to his mind.
He remembered that he had seen Mr. Slocum carrying a brass-bound box exactly like those which Blackbeard had brought to Mr. Seymour. He recalled how angry Mr. Slocum had been on that occasion, without any obvious reasonable cause.
Blackbeard’s visits to Mr. Seymour had been secret. Was Mr. Slocum’s anger due to the fact that he also had something to conceal? What was the connection between the three men? Had it anything to do with the boxes? What did they contain? Were they part of the cargo of theSanta Maria?—perhaps held smuggled goods?
Puzzling about these questions, Martin suddenly thought of another—one that startled him. What was the nature of the business between Mr. Slocum and the old Frenchman?
The question came as a surprise to Martin himself. At first he did not understand what had given rise to it, but he found himself fitting together incidents that had previously seemed unrelated, and the more he thought of them the more disturbed he grew.
Hitherto no one had been able to account for the strange attacks on the Frenchman’s room. But Martin now remembered that the face he had seen one night at the window was the face of the man who had waylaid him going an errand for Mr. Slocum. He remembered also Mounseer’s dislike of Mr. Seymour—and Mr. Seymour knew Mr. Slocum. It was odd that, somehow or other, Mr. Slocum came into everything.
What was the mystery behind it all? To all appearance the Frenchman possessed nothing that was worth stealing; yet what other motive than robbery could anyone have had for breaking into his room? Mounseer knew Mr. Slocum. Mr. Slocum knew Mr. Seymour, and that gentleman, in spite of his politeness and his neighbourly intentions, was evidently suspected and detested by the Frenchman.
Martin began to feel very much worried, and had the extraordinary conviction that the clue to the whole mystery lay with Mr. Slocum.
“I dare say it’s very silly,” he thought; “it’s simply because I dislike the man. Yet I can’t help it. The question is, what is Mr. Slocum at?”
This question was dinning in Martin’s head as he walked back along the street. So intent was he on his own thoughts that he stepped rather heedlessly, and was brought up by the sudden collision with a man proceeding in the opposite direction. The man let out a savage oath, and Martin, uttering an apology, edged away, only then recognising that the angry footfarer was Blackbeard.
Fortunately, he thought, he had not himself been recognised, and, allowing a short interval to elapse, he had the curiosity to follow the man. It was with no surprise that he saw him enter Mr. Pasqua’s coffee-house. Beyond doubt he was going to meet the two men whom Martin had already seen there.
More curious than ever, Martin wished that he could find some means of discovering what the three conspirators, as he now considered them, were about to discuss. He thought of going in and buying a cup of coffee on the chance that he might learn something, but after a moment’s reflection gave up the idea; there would be too much danger of his being caught.