Chapter 8
Peter gasped at the sight of the dead man, but did not look as horrified as I’d feared he’d be. He gazed at the body in fascination but also sadness, genuine sorrow that such a thing had befallen another.
“We should fetch the magistrate,” he said in a hushed whisper.
“That we should.” I seized a rope that had also been trapped under the boards. It was wet, but the upended boat had kept it from becoming sodden. “We need to tow this to shore, to secure it so it doesn’t drift.”
Peter reached to help, and together, we lashed the rope to a hook in the gunwale. The young man inside was well stuck, so we would not need to turn the boat all the way over to get him to shore.
Peter and I shared the rope between us. We swam, and when we hit shallow water, we marched onward, hauling the boat with us.
We passed Donata, who was climbing into the coach that had taken us into the sea. Donata’s maid reached out with a cloak, hiding her clinging wet gown.
“Gabriel?” my wife called, startled.
Gabriella, already inside, peered out in concern. “Father, what has happened?”
I did not answer either of them, not wanting to shout the news across the water. I continued with the boat toward the shore, Peter assisting.
Halfway up the shingle, a stump of an old dock protruded from the rocks. I fastened the rope to it, looping it around and around and tying it as tightly as I could. I called out to a fisherman and asked him to please make certain the boat stayed put. I had to promise to pay him, but he nodded, settling down next to it without question and pulling out a flask.
I hoisted Peter, dripping, into the coach that had come alongside to meet us.
As we huddled, damp and shivering, blankets around us, I related what we’d found.
“Oh, the poor lad,” Gabriella said. “Did his boat tip over?” The nanny cuddled Anne on her lap, the lady’s eyes round. Anne, the only one oblivious to the drama, tugged at a ribbon on her dress.
“Difficult to tell,” I answered.
I fixed to my mind the details of what I’d seen. Someone had strangled the man and set him off in the boat. Whether they’d tipped him over in hopes the sea would wash away the evidence of their crime, or the boat had caught in a bad wave, I could not say.
At home, Bartholomew dried me off and fetched me fresh clothes, and then I went out to seek the magistrate.
The magistrate’s court was held in the Old Ship, a hotel that had stood on its site for many years. The Regent had taken rooms here before he’d purchased his Pavilion, and the hotel had been turned into a rather nice abode.
I went there in the hope that either the court was in session or I’d find someone who could direct me to the magistrate’s house.
The court was in. The magistrate, a large man with red cheeks called Sir Reginald Pyne, presided over a hot room and a few offenders who looked ready to be anywhere but there. Pyne growled out his last sentence, threw down his gavel, and left the bench.
I intercepted him on his way to a large glass of port.
“Eh?” Pyne blurted when I quietly told him what I’d found. “What the devil are you talking about?”
“A man has lost his life,” I repeated in a hard voice. “I tied up the boat and left a fisherman to look after it.”
The magistrate looked longingly at the taproom, where his port would be waiting, then back at me. He heaved a long sigh.
“Then we’d best get to it before the fisherman steals everything including the pegs that hold the thing together.”
* * *
The boat had drawn a crowd.The fisherman I’d recruited to watch was still there, lounging on the shingle.
The crowd was a mix of fishermen in well-worn coats and men and women on holiday, the ladies with large bonnets and parasols. None moved back as the magistrate approached, the passersby too curious to make any deference.
“Get that turned over,” the magistrate barked at the fisherman.
The fisherman stared at him balefully, then slowly rose and gestured to a man and boy further up the shingle.
