There was a careful silence.
"That is t' say, if there's a position open in th' harbour authority t' a man o' the sea that ye'd recommend, I'd be grateful t' hear it."
"Y' mean a harbour commissioner, inspector sort o' thing?"
"I do."
"Then I have t' disappoint ye, Mr Kydd. We runs things differently here. No King's men pokin' into our affairs an' that. An' no Customs an' Excise neither. In th' islands trade is king. So it's leave 'em at it to get on wi' their business.
"Now, the most important thing we does is the piloting. T' be a Guernsey pilot is t' be at the top o' th' profession, Mr Kydd. An' afore ye ask, there's none but a Guern' will have th' knowledge t' do it. See, there's nothing like here anywheres in Creation f'r rocks 'n' shoals, and then we adds in the tidal currents, and it's a rare place indeed f'r hazards. Y' learn about a rock—it looks like quite another when th' tide state's different. Y' come upon it in th' fog, see it just the once—which rock are y' going t' tell y'r ship's master it is?"
He went on: "Currents about here c'n be faster'n a man can run but they'll change speed 'n' direction with the tide as well. It's right scareful, th' way it can be well on th' make in one part an' at the same time only at slack in another. Why, springs in the Great Russel y' can hear th' overfalls roaring—does y' know how t' navigate the far side of an overfall in spate? An' then there's the seamounts. Nasty beasts they are, currents over them are wicked and they change—"
"—with th' tide," Kydd said hastily. "I did hear as ye've bought a patent lifeboat." "We did. A Greathead thirty-footer, cost us a hundred and seventy pounds so we takes good care of it."
"And does it need—"
"We keep it at St Sampson."
Clearly it was of small interest and tucked away safely out of harm's way. Kydd was running out of ideas. "Do ye conduct hydrographical surveys hereabouts? I'm doubting th' Admiralty has the time."
"No need. We're well served b' the private charts, all put out b' local mariners as we know 'n' trust. Dobrée an' others, rutters by Deschamps . . ."
"Then buoyage an' lighthouses—surely Trinity House can't be expected—"
"But they do an' all! Ye've probably seen our Casquet light— remarkable thing! Three towers, an' Argand oil wi' reflecting metal—"
Kydd stood up. "Aye. Thank ye, Mr Collas. Good day t' ye."
Renzi waited patiently in the foyer of the imposing red-brick building on St Julian's Avenue. The clerk appeared again, regarding him doubtfully. "Mr Belmont is very busy, but c'n find you fifteen minutes, Mr, er, Renzi."
A thin and bespectacled individual looked up as he entered. "Yes?"
The man was irritable in his manner but making an effort to be civil, so Renzi pressed on: "Sir, at the moment I'm to seek a position in Guernsey that will engage my interests and talents to best advantage.
"My experience in marine insurance will not be unknown to the profession—the barratry case of the Lady of Penarth back in the year 'ninety-three, in which I might claim a leading role, has been well remarked." It would probably not help his case to mention that at the time he had been a common foremast hand in the old Duke William with Kydd.
"Since those days I have occupied myself as an officer in the King's service, lately invalided out, and it struck me that I should perhaps consider turning my experience to account and—"
"Tell me, sir, what is your conceiving of a contract of indemnity?"
"Why, sir, this is nothing but that which is defined in the deed." It was a fair bet that anything and everything would be covered in any good watertight policy.
"Would you allow, then, rotted ropes in an assessment of common average or would it be the particular?"
"Sir, you can hardly expect me to adjudicate in a matter so fine while not in possession of the details at hand."
Belmont sighed. "Might I know then if you have written anything?"
Renzi brightened; he had passed the initial test and now they were enquiring after his common literacy. As to that . . . "Sir, since you so kindly asked," he began warmly, "I am at the moment consumed in the task of evolving an ethnographical theory that I do hope will be published at—"
"I was rather referring to policies," the man rasped sarcastically, "and, as it happens, I'm desolated to find that there is no opening in this establishment for a marine gentleman of your undoubted talents. Good day to you, sir."
In the evening, footsore and thoughtful, it was time to review matters. Kydd's attempts had led nowhere, although he now had the solace that in Guernsey society it seemed his crime was regarded more as bad luck than anything else, the pursuit of profit by trade a worthy enough endeavour whatever the nature of the enterprise.
Renzi's manners and evident breeding had created suspicion and distrust and, apart from a doubtful offer as a proof-reader and another as assistant to a dancing master, whose duties appeared to be nothing more than making himself agreeable to lady students, there was nothing.
"I'm to go to St Sampson tomorrow," Kydd said. "There are several yards as build fine schooners an' brigs there, an' they'll be sure t' need a projector o' quality, one who knows th' sea an' has met fine men o' standin' in strange parts o' th' world," he added unconvincingly.
Renzi hid a smile. Kydd engaged in hard selling to thick-skinned mercantile interests was unlikely, to say the least. "One moment, and I'll jot our ideas down," he said.
He found paper, but then in irritation turned on Kydd: "Brother, I have mentioned before that the silver-lead pencil is a fine but expensive piece, and is for my own studies and not for the, er, general use. Where did you leave it, pray?"
Kydd glowered back. "An' I've heard above ten times o' this wonderful pencil, but f'r now I'm not guilty o' the crime." He hunted about briefly. "It'll turn up."
Renzi paused at the sound from below of a shouted argument reaching its climax in a crash. "Possibly we should be considering a more aggressive approach to securing our existence."
"What?" Kydd grunted.
"Why, er, we have not yet consulted the newspaper."
They sauntered into the nearest coffee-house. Renzi engaged a bewigged attendant in amiable conversation while Kydd sat on a bench and looked around as though waiting, carelessly picking up a recent La Gazette. When he was sure no one was watching he folded the newspaper, slipped it into his waistcoat and left, his face burning.
It was a substantial publication in keeping with the prosperous island economy and its study justified the opening of their last claret, for the light was fast fading and, with a single candle at the table, all Renzi would allow, there were many pages of closely printed columns. They set to, trying to ignore the distant squalling of infants and the reek of burned fat and cheap tallow rising to the upper storeys.
It was depressing reading: without appropriate introductions of the usual sort, access to the more gentlemanly occupations was barred, while without experience even the lower trades would not be open to them.
"There's a situation here that may interest you," Renzi said.
"Oh?"
"Indeed. I see here a vacancy as a shopman for an antigropelos draper, no less."
Kydd gave a lop-sided smile. "Being?"
"Well, a seller of waterproof leggings, of course," Renzi answered lamely. They both tried to laugh, and Kydd reached for the foul-weather flask; there should be some of the precious spirit left from the last stormy deck watch.
"Where's that bedamn'd flask gone to?" grunted Kydd in annoyance, rummaging about. Suddenly he stopped and raised his eyes to meet Renzi's. "A poxy snaffler!"
"It has to be—but where's a sneak thief going to get in while we're out?"
Kydd had locked everything and he was sure that it was not possible to gain entry.
"Ah—there is one way!"
"Nicholas?"
"At night. We don't batten down all hatches while we're asleep, do we?"
"The scrovy swab! If I lay my . . ." Kydd smiled grimly. "Bear a fist, Nicholas. I'm going t' rig a welcome as will see us shakin' hands with th' villain b' morning."
It was easily enough done: the odd length of wood, pieces of string led along the floor, a cunning door wedge. Then they pulled down their beds to retire.
Renzi did not sleep well. It was becoming clear that they were headed into unknown waters: possibly useless penury, certainly life on the fringes of society. He would bear his lot without complaint but now a moral question was arising.
Was he right in acquiescing to Kydd's forlorn search to clear his name? If Lockwood was at the back of it the implication was that he would not rest until Kydd's personal ruin was seen to be accomplished. Therefore even if by some miracle Kydd achieved his exoneration Lockwood would find some other way to secure his revenge. Renzi knew well the lengths to which vindictive men in high places could go if vengeance was their purpose.
But he had vowed to stand by his friend whatever the situation. Therefore, in logic, he must remain.
The bed with its wire frame creaked and twanged as he turned restlessly, but sleep did not come. His mind wandered to his studies: his theory was proceeding well, coalescing about responses to primal needs in differing cultures, but he needed more data. Much more. If only he could lay hold of Baudin's journal, but the French explorer had died in Mauritius and his data was now separated by the unbridgeable gulf of war. Where else could—
Cecilia. Would she wait for him? The thought shocked him into full wakefulness as he reflected on his failure in Australia to forge a life there as a free settler. He had wanted to create an Arcadia of his small landholding for her. Now, his grand plan to complete his first volume for publication to present to her before he felt morally able to seek her hand—where was this, now that his entire endeavour was at an indefinite standstill? What if she—
"Hssst! Nicholas!" Kydd whispered, but Renzi had heard it too. The door-handle was squeaking softly. He lay still. There was just enough wan moonlight to make out gross shadows so the two of them should well be able to handle one—but if there were more?
The door scraped open and stayed for a space. Then the floorboards creaked but Renzi could not see any bulking figure. Instead, to his surprise, he next heard movement from well within the room.
Kydd yanked the string hard. The door banged to and the wedge slammed into place with a triumphant finality. The intruder whirled about and made for the door but it was jammed tightly shut. "Strike a light, Nicholas, an' we'll see what we've snagged," Kydd said, with satisfaction, getting to his feet.
The candle flickered into flame, revealing a slight figure trapped against the door. "Well, now, an' what's y' name then, y' young shicer?"
There was no answer. Two dark eyes watched warily as they approached. The figure was in leggings, a short jacket and a bandanna.
"Answer me, y' scamp, or I has ye taken in b' th' watch."
The muttered reply was inaudible.
"Speak up, 'scapegallows!"
"P-Pookie."
A female child-thief? Caught off-guard in his nightgown Renzi took refuge in frowning severely. "Pookie what, pray?"
Defiantly the boyish figure stayed mute.
"We c'n easily find out b' takin' you t' each o' the families in th' buildin' t' see who owns ye."
"Pookie, er, Turner."
Kydd looked at Renzi in exasperation. The harsh penal system demanded transportation to Botany Bay for the theft of a handkerchief and the gallows for a few shillings. Children as young as nine had gone to the scaffold. What had possessed this ragamuffin to take such risks?
"Get rigged, Nicholas, I'm gettin' satisfaction fr'm th' father."
But there was none, only a listless, irritated mother who screamed threats at the child. "Only twelve year she has an' all, sir, an' s' help me the bastard ain't even mine!" she whined. It seemed they would not be seeing their possessions again.
"Listen t' me, an' mark well what I say," Kydd growled, in a fierce quarterdeck manner. "If'n I catch this scut skulking about our rooms again it's th' beak on th' instant. Compree?"