Cornwallis din’t really wanter know that.”
“So you didn’t tell him?”
“S’right! Good man, Mr. Cornwallis. Wouldn’t wanter make things ’ard fer ’im. An’ if ’e’d a’ know’d, ’e’d a’ ’ad the poor sod ’anged from the yardarm, no matter ’ow much ’e’d a’ felt fer ’im, an’ like ter ’ave pushed the bo’sun over ’isself.” He shook his head. “Got ’is imagination all in the wrong places. Feels for folk summink terrible, but takes everythin’ too exact, if you know wot I mean?”
“Yes, I think I do,” Pitt answered. “Would he ever take credit for another man’s act of bravery, do you think?”
MacMunn looked at him incredulously.
“More likely ’ang for another man’s crime, ’e would! ’Oo-ever said that’s both a liar and a fool. ’Oo is ’e?”
“I don’t know, but I intend to find out. Can you help me, Mr. MacMunn?”
“ ’Oo, me?”
“If you will. For example, did Captain Cornwallis have any personal enemies, people who were envious or who cherished a grudge?”
MacMunn screwed up his face, his tea forgotten. “ ’Ard ter say, if ye’re honest like. Nothin’ as I knows of, but ’oo can say wot goes on in a man’s mind w’en ’e’s passed over in the ranks, or w’en ’e ’as ter be told orff fer summink. Honest man knows it’s ’is owndoin’ … but …” He shrugged expressively.
But no matter how hard Pitt pressed, MacMunn had few practical suggestions to make, and Pitt thanked him again, and left him feeling considerably lighter in spirits, as if he had met with something essentially clean which had washed away the sense of oppression which had weighed him down after speaking with Durand. A fear inside him had eased.
The early afternoon found him in Rotherhithe with AbleSeaman Lockhart, a taciturn man rather the worse for drink who gave him no information of value and seemed to remember Cornwallis as a man to be feared, but respected for his seamanship. He disliked all senior officers, and said so. It was the only subject upon which he would offer more than single-word replies.
By late afternoon, when the air was hot and still and a haze had settled over the City, the river winding below in a glittering ribbon, Pitt walked up the hill from the landing stage towards the Greenwich Naval Hospital to see the onetime ship’s surgeon, Mr. Rawlinson.
Rawlinson was busy, and Pitt had to wait in an anteroom for over half an hour, but he was reasonably comfortable and the unaccustomed sights and sounds held his interest.
When Rawlinson came he was dressed in a white shirt with the neck open and the sleeves rolled up, as if he had been hard at work, and there were bloodstains on his arms and several places on his body. He was a big man, well muscled, with a broad, amiable face.
“Bow Street police station?” he said curiously, eyeing Pitt up and down. “Not one of our people in trouble, surely? Not over the river and on your patch, anyway.”
“Not at all.” Pitt turned from the window, where he had been watching the water and the traffic going up to the Port of London. “I wanted to ask you about an officer who served with you in the past … John Cornwallis.”
Rawlinson was incredulous. “Cornwallis! You can’t mean he’s come to your attention. I thought he was in the police himself. Or was it the Home Office?”
“No, police.” It seemed explanations were unavoidable. He had promised discretion. How could he honor that and still be of any use? “This is an incident in the past that has been … misinterpreted,” Pitt replied tentatively. “I am looking into it on Captain Cornwallis’s behalf.”
Rawlinson pursed his lips. “I was a ship’s surgeon, Mr. Pitt. I spent a great deal of my time in the orlop.”
“The what?”
“The orlop. The lower deck, aft, where the wounded are taken and we do our operating.”
Below them on the river a clipper with canvas full set was drifting up tide towards the
“So you didn’t tell him?”
“S’right! Good man, Mr. Cornwallis. Wouldn’t wanter make things ’ard fer ’im. An’ if ’e’d a’ know’d, ’e’d a’ ’ad the poor sod ’anged from the yardarm, no matter ’ow much ’e’d a’ felt fer ’im, an’ like ter ’ave pushed the bo’sun over ’isself.” He shook his head. “Got ’is imagination all in the wrong places. Feels for folk summink terrible, but takes everythin’ too exact, if you know wot I mean?”
“Yes, I think I do,” Pitt answered. “Would he ever take credit for another man’s act of bravery, do you think?”
MacMunn looked at him incredulously.
“More likely ’ang for another man’s crime, ’e would! ’Oo-ever said that’s both a liar and a fool. ’Oo is ’e?”
“I don’t know, but I intend to find out. Can you help me, Mr. MacMunn?”
“ ’Oo, me?”
“If you will. For example, did Captain Cornwallis have any personal enemies, people who were envious or who cherished a grudge?”
MacMunn screwed up his face, his tea forgotten. “ ’Ard ter say, if ye’re honest like. Nothin’ as I knows of, but ’oo can say wot goes on in a man’s mind w’en ’e’s passed over in the ranks, or w’en ’e ’as ter be told orff fer summink. Honest man knows it’s ’is owndoin’ … but …” He shrugged expressively.
But no matter how hard Pitt pressed, MacMunn had few practical suggestions to make, and Pitt thanked him again, and left him feeling considerably lighter in spirits, as if he had met with something essentially clean which had washed away the sense of oppression which had weighed him down after speaking with Durand. A fear inside him had eased.
The early afternoon found him in Rotherhithe with AbleSeaman Lockhart, a taciturn man rather the worse for drink who gave him no information of value and seemed to remember Cornwallis as a man to be feared, but respected for his seamanship. He disliked all senior officers, and said so. It was the only subject upon which he would offer more than single-word replies.
By late afternoon, when the air was hot and still and a haze had settled over the City, the river winding below in a glittering ribbon, Pitt walked up the hill from the landing stage towards the Greenwich Naval Hospital to see the onetime ship’s surgeon, Mr. Rawlinson.
Rawlinson was busy, and Pitt had to wait in an anteroom for over half an hour, but he was reasonably comfortable and the unaccustomed sights and sounds held his interest.
When Rawlinson came he was dressed in a white shirt with the neck open and the sleeves rolled up, as if he had been hard at work, and there were bloodstains on his arms and several places on his body. He was a big man, well muscled, with a broad, amiable face.
“Bow Street police station?” he said curiously, eyeing Pitt up and down. “Not one of our people in trouble, surely? Not over the river and on your patch, anyway.”
“Not at all.” Pitt turned from the window, where he had been watching the water and the traffic going up to the Port of London. “I wanted to ask you about an officer who served with you in the past … John Cornwallis.”
Rawlinson was incredulous. “Cornwallis! You can’t mean he’s come to your attention. I thought he was in the police himself. Or was it the Home Office?”
“No, police.” It seemed explanations were unavoidable. He had promised discretion. How could he honor that and still be of any use? “This is an incident in the past that has been … misinterpreted,” Pitt replied tentatively. “I am looking into it on Captain Cornwallis’s behalf.”
Rawlinson pursed his lips. “I was a ship’s surgeon, Mr. Pitt. I spent a great deal of my time in the orlop.”
“The what?”
“The orlop. The lower deck, aft, where the wounded are taken and we do our operating.”
Below them on the river a clipper with canvas full set was drifting up tide towards the
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