"Mr. Bartram. John Hardman's death. We are truly sorry."
There was no reply to that, and as they rode sedately down the road to Langstone and the causeway, no other words were spoken. Sam and Will stayed together side by side and made no move to show their weapons, although Bartram and his fellows did, not ostentatiously. At his saddle, on a thong, Bob had a scattergun, short and deadly. Had they run, he could have slaughtered them.
As they approached the houses, Will began to be aware, quite slowly, of the devastation Hardman's hanging must have brought to the community. The Widow Hardman, he recalled, had lost two sons already in most awful circumstances, two of her three, and now the last was dead, hanged at a crossroads like a most vicious criminal. Most ironically, he'd been trying to escape the chosen life. The Hardman house, he saw before they all dismounted, was closed and shuttered up. Perhaps the poor old dame had died as well, from grief and shock.
It was Mary's house they made for, not Bartram's own. As they got near the door them leading, with pistols at their backs it opened to let Kate emerge, a child in arms and others at her skirt. She eyed them almost fearfully, no hint of any greeting, and hurried to her own front door, and through it. Then Mary Broad appeared to watch and let them in. Her eyes met Bentley's levelly, cool but not antagonistic, and he had a sudden surge of hope.
"Mistress Broad," he said. "Mary. We found John Hardman at a crossroads. We were coming here in any way. We have to stop this dreadful spiral. We have to know the truth."
Then, with Bartram glowering, she stepped forward and embraced him, arms strong, her bosom and her body warm.
"Poor John," she said. "Poor John. He talked to you, we know that. He told you things he had no right to tell. It was not us though, if you were meant to think that, maybe. We heard last night. The warning was for us as well."
"Mary!"
Bartram's voice was harsh, but she was not intimidated. She pulled back from Will, but kept her hand on his upper arm.
"There are disputes within our company," she said, mildly. "Come you in, and let us talk about it."
Sam said, as they began to cross the threshold: "It was not Will, mistress, that John Hardman spoke to, it was I. Will did not want me to, he is in no way to blame."
"No matter now," said Bartram, gruffly. "Let us discuss inside. Bob, George. We must be guarded. Be discreet."
Inside the house was dark, and warm and still, with little light from the windows and no lamps or candles. Mary moved to make a light, then changed her mind. For all of them, the dim was preferable. They sat, but then seemed lost for words. Finally Will spoke, the oppression weighing heavily on him.
"The Widow Hardman," he began. "John's mother. Is she ... ?"
"We had her brother come for her," said Mary. "She was ... she would not allow us to look after her. It is ... John was her third."
"She would not have let us talk to you," said Bartram, quietly. "She did not know, but guessed what he had done. She would not understand that, ever."
"But you do?" Sam asked quickly. Then, getting no reply, he added: "I remember, you would not let John tell us something that he wanted to."
"He told you later," said Mary.
"For cash!" came Bartram's voice. "He sold us out for cash, and now he's dead! That's why I would not let him tell you. Was I wrong?"
After a few long moments, Mary sighed.
"Isa," she said. "These men, these Navy officers. They must be told, we have agreed it. They are not Customs, they came for private reasons at the start. I told them we were not behind the other deaths, and I suppose young John confirmed it. I said the other deaths were wicked and that's proved, also, by his own. William; and Sam. What we do to get our living, as you know, is a hanging matter, if caught we're killed, and sometimes kill preventing it. But not like this, for any reason, never. Will knew my husband. Could you see Jesse doing it? To stop the mouths of people? To burn them? To stuff them headfirst down a cave to starve? Could you see my Jesse doing that?"
She covered her face, and the men stirred, uncomfortably.
"You lied to him," said Samuel, unexpectedly. Mary's head jerked up, she was astonished. "To Will, about the French maid," he added quickly. "Sally, or Celine. She smuggles Frenchmen. Is that the cause of this? I think so."
Isa let out an explosive "Hah!" while Mary shook her head from side to side, dismissively.
"Celine is nothing," she said, "nothing. I said she'd gone to business off down east, did not I, Will? She had, as usual, but that has naught to do with us, or this. Indeed, I did not lie."
"But '
"You said Charles Yorke was buried," Will interrupted. "You said hotheads from out of town. Charles Yorke was trapped, hurt, incarcerated, he was not buried. He was not even dead. Was that the truth?"
There was a longer silence. Mary's voice, when she broke it, was lower than before.
"It was almost what I knew," she said. "It was much of what I hoped. Forgive me, for it was not all the truth. They were not local men, the most of them, they were not of our people nor any of the bands we know and work with. Gentlemen; sirs. All this is why we have to speak with you, to put it on the level, or things will get much worse. Something is happening down this way, something we do not want. There are families moving in on us, from the east, and coercing us. Yorke and Warren found out names and plans, and they were killed so horribly to be a lesson to us, and a warning not to resist. John Hardman was more determined and more foolhardy than most, and looked to you for help, maybe. He was gibbeted to discourage you, I guess, but us as well. He was a wild boy, but we loved him well."
Bartram stood, and went to place a log on the fire. He stirred it, as if thinking, then faced out into the room.
"These families Mary mentions," he said. "That is not proper families, understand, it is just a word describing how we organise. In Langstone, on part of Hayling, Warblington, along the Emsworth shore, we have a family, linking in with others round this stretch of coast. Down Kent way they have much bigger gangs, and go about things much more ruthlessly. In years past these families have joined, and in the past five years or so have joined with other teams in East Sussex, Brighton, Worthing way. Now they're horning in on us. They run bigger cargoes, much more frequently, they use much more force and far less stealthiness. Two hundred men with guns and clubs to guard the tub men coming off the beach, luggers big enough to fight a Navy cutter, pack horses, mules, carts provided by the local population out of fear. Death and brute behaviour is the norm for them. Those are the out-of-towners Mary spoke of, that is what she meant. They cut up Yorke and Warren because they found them out. They strung up John because he went prating truth."
Sam's face was dubious, he was unconvinced; still sore, Will hazarded, at the dismissal of his Sally theory. Mary and Isa watched him narrowly, to see how he would jump. After a moment, Mary preempted
"We do not say we are good," she told him gently, 'only that we are better, or at least we do not use force unless it's forced upon us. Behind us, of course, behind us workers in the boats and on the shore, there are other men, of much more power, of wealth and influence. Do you not see? Our market is in London mainly, the centre of the world, for distribution anyway. In France the stuff is not ours for free, it must be bought and paid for in advance, made somewhere in the south maybe, then put in casks, if liquid, transported hundreds of miles, stored, lightered out to our expensive ships which must be built and owned and paid for then brought to England, landed, stored, coloured with burnt sugar, maybe recasked or even bottled, then up the road to London as I said, guarded, bribed for, and protection paid to any Tom or Harry who might have a safe conduit to betray us through, when he's had the goods and benefits. Some of them," she ended, on a bitter note, 'some of them Customs men, and some Navy officers. And above us all those rich men, shadows, who provide the money in advance that makes it happen. Those rich men without names who want to join up with the men of Kent and East Sussex and will maim and murder anyone who dares to say them nay."