Their simple hopes, though, that the men would take their cue in trust from Mary and the other women and quickly give them information about Charles Yorke, dwindled as the talks went forward. Bartram said several times that he was pleased to trust their story in as far as it went, that their purpose was discovery of information which would not lead to general wreaking of revenge against the local free trade, however innocent they were of blacker crimes. But Yorke and Warren had not been just Customs men, there was more to them than met the eye and everybody knew it. If they had died, why was that abnormal anyway? These things happened. So what next?
This struck Will as sophistry, but he could not clearly see the way to beat it.
"But Mary said He nearly choked on his frustration. "It was a dreadful case, sir! She said inhuman, horrible, that '
Bartram interrupted.
"And Mary had no right! We tell you things, you go away, what happens next? More spies, with harsher purpose? We are known as traders, naturally we are, but unless we're caught red-handed, the Customs cannot act against us. Will this be seen as evidence, if it carries on? Will this lead to destruction of our band?"
"But Mary says that it was not your band!" Sam shouted, and Isa slammed his hand to the table, hard.
"It is enough! No more! There are things here that we cannot say! Go now, this meeting's over. Now go away."
"Isa!" snapped John Hardman. "Why can't we tell these men? Why can't '
Isa stood up, a big man, face dark with anger, and his chair went down with a crash. Upstairs a baby cried, and Mary also stood, quelling them with her calm. Later that evening, at the inn, Sam suggested using money, but Will was horrified and told him he was mad. Money was not the problem, he insisted, money would insult them, money was not their need. It was trust they had to reach for from the traders, and they were on their way. What's more, when they had left the house, Mary had smiled at him, and he thought a change was coming, if they were only patient. Samuel, who was drinking brandy to ease his bitterness, was inclined to laugh.
Next day though, it turned out Will was right. They went to Langstone in the morning, to be confronted by an empty beach - no boats, no men, no women working either, except for Widow Hardman. She greeted them perfunctorily, and said the men were fishing and the wives and young had walked along the shore to Warblington or Emsworth. Sam's bitterness, not helped perhaps by a brandy headache, increased, until shortly Will found himself alone. The day was fair, so he mooched about along the foreshore for a while, then took a glass of ale and bread and cheese in the Royal Oak. In early afternoon he saw Mary and Kate, with children, coming back along the shore and went to meet them. Kate took off the little ones, while he and Mary sat to watch the water creeping up to meet across, then drown, the Hayling Island causeway.
"We have been to Emsworth," she said, when they had sat awhile. "Seeing Sally off on to a coach. Where is your friend today?"
Will shrugged.
"We've fallen out a little. He has a head from drinking. Where has she gone?"
"Oh, east some way. On her usual business. Drinking, you say? Does he do a lot of that?"
Will would rather have asked what Sally's normal business was, but he had a strong idea she would not answer. She was tense, as if anticipating.
"No, not a lot, we are not the usual Navy soaks. It is Isa Bartram, if I might be frank. Sam felt we were going to be told something we really need to hear, and then Isa ... well, you were there."
She nodded.
"Sam does not fully understand our difficulties," she said. She paused, as if assessing. "May be that you don't neither, but I think you do. You do believe me, don't you, Mr. Bentley? That the men round here were not a part of it?"
"Oh yes," said Will. "Oh yes. But we have problems of our own. There is poor Sir Arthur. Sam is beholden to him in the most basic way. It is very hard for him. Not to know."
There was a long pause. Tentatively, a mule was stepping through the water splash lifting its front feet high. The woman on it appeared indifferent whether they would get across, be drowned, or no.
"He is dead," said Mary. Her voice was low. "Charles Yorke. I am sorry to be the bearer of the news, but we decided we should tell you. He was taken with his companion, the same night, and both were killed, although there is some doubt in Charles Yorke's case as to if it was ... intended. It was many, many days ago. I'm sorry."
The mule was in the middle of the causeway, the water flowing just beneath its belly. The rider, still indifferent, had lifted her feet clear rather delicately.
"Who?" asked William. "Are you permitted? Why?"
"It was ... no, not an accident, but ... it was unforeseen. They ran into a band of out-of-towners, some hired men who had, well been too free with broaching half-casks, who did not know the ... I cannot say rules, but I reckon you take my meaning. It was not done the way our people would have done it. Or any people hereabout that I have ever heard of. It was the act of beasts. These things happen, these ... killings, on both sides. Last year we had two fine men ... and one riding officer, fine too, I suppose, to his wife and family."
"But do you know the men?" said Will. "The perpetrators? I suppose you cannot tell me that."
Her face was sad.
"You will never find that out round here," she said. "Your colleagues no, the Customs men, from Dorset, Hampshire, West Sussex, London, they have done everything, searched everywhere, but they will never find that out. Nor where his body lies buried, neither."
"Buried? What, is he in a grave? The other man, Charles Warren, was he "buried", too? They found him in a haystack, burned and desecrated. Do they call that "buried", these beastly rogues?"
There was a small silence. Her face was stricken.
"Buried, that is our understanding," Mary said. "We do not know where, we were not told. The men who did it are a desperate crew, the rumour is that they did grievous wrong. But he is ... you may tell Sir Arthur, he is buried. That must be enough. You, Sir Arthur, nobody ... you will never see him more."
But that night, by half a moon through broken clouds, in a depression called the Devil's Punchbowl, Will Bentley looked upon the sad remains of poor Charles Yorke, and wept.
Twenty-Three
The body, which was like no other Will had ever seen, was still half covered when Samuel brought him to it, which he found an everlasting mercy. He had been warned, as they got nearer, that it would be a sight he would find horrifying, but to steel himself. When Sam had come on it earlier that afternoon, he said, there had been too much light for necessary avoidance. John Hardman, who had brought him there, had told him some of what had happened, and suggested he should keep his distance and make do with hearsay. That, said Samuel drily, had been impossible. Hardman had started moving rocks at the entrance to a kind of cave, and Sam, impatiently, had had to help. From four feet or so, he had seen the awful sight.