IREX

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A mystery novel set in Victorian Britain, 1890.

Written by Alan Purusram (writing as Carl Rackman)

Irex is a psychological drama following the characters and

events aboard an ill-fated sailing ship whilst on its maiden

voyage, told from the point of view of the ship’s troubled

captain. It is based on an actual event, the wreck of the

sailing vessel Irex, which took place in 1890; though the

event is real, the story and characters are entirely

fictional.

A parallel narrative follows a fictional investigation

several weeks later as a coroner tries to unravel the

mysterious chain of events that led to its sinking, while

trying to find out why his inquest is facing stiff opposition

from powerful forces in the British Establishment.

140,000 words. (This excerpt 10,000 words).

PROLOGUE

Isle of Wight

Monday, 3rd February 1890

The cab pulled up on the cobbled street outside the Newport

law courts with a clatter of hooves, the horse’s huffing

breath accompanying the muttered imprecations of the driver at

the miserable weather. Mr Blake alighted from the carriage

steps, stiff from travelling, the cab rocking with his heavy

movements. He had left Winchester at half past four that

morning in midwinter darkness, successively transferring from

coach to train to ferry to train again, finally to this cab,

enduring icy fog at one extreme to the present steel-grey

overcast, chased by unwelcome fusillades of spitty rain driven

by a biting wind. To say he was merely cold was a grave

disservice to the bone-chilled discomfort he felt. He spared a

thought for the cabbie, exposed to the elements, and

generously pressed a sixpence into the man’s half-frozen hand,

blue-white as milk; the cabbie’s lips barely moved to voice

his mumbled appreciation.

Mr Blake was a tall man, and his black greatcoat flapped

around him as he retrieved his case and replaced his hat,

defying the squally gusts that still assaulted the island. He

briskly negotiated the slick steps of the law courts, his

billowing apparel presenting a brooding aspect which quite

belied both the man and his purpose.

As he reached the glass-panelled door, a respectful

attendant pulled it open in time for Mr Blake to be swept in

by the swirling wind, and closed it as quickly as was polite,

glancing through the glass and exchanging nods with the numbed

cab driver, who was quick to touch his cap and clatter away

from the kerbside.

Inside, Blake shook off his greatcoat. The interior of the

courthouse was warm and dry, with the musty, institutional

odour typical of all Her Majesty’s official buildings. Though

the Isle of Wight was one of England’s geographical

backwaters, it basked in a peculiar grandeur as the favourite

corner of the monarch’s expansive Empire; consequently it was

inordinately blessed with the latest indulgences. The humble

Newport court house boasted such luxuries as central heating,

interior lighting, neatly furnished offices and

accommodations, and a dedicated telegraph station.

The reception clerk, expecting him, greeted Blake by name,

took his coat and withdrew to the offices behind him. There

were a few short, muffled exchanges through the partly opened

door, carried in Blake’s direction by a rich waft of warm air

and aromatic pipe tobacco smoke that preceded the clerk’s

return to the front desk.

“Mr Blake, sir, please follow me to Court Number 1. Mr

Peabody and the other gentlemen will receive you there.” Blake

nodded again, content with the very British decorum of these

initial exchanges before the grittier work began.

The young man led him through the large double doors that

opened from the entrance hall into an austere, parquet-floored

corridor. It had probably once been a colonnade – brick

archways filled in by either blank plaster faces or functional

arched windows lined the wall to the outside, while polished

doors stood at spaced intervals down the other wall, with a

few desultory figures gracing the benches next to them; Blake

guessed they were probably attorneys or reporters.

The temperature, even here, was a drowsy warmth fed by the

heating pipes along the skirting, hissing faintly as they

conveyed hot water around the building. The same musty smell

of papers, ink and ancient bound volumes combined with that of

hot, government-issue paint from the pipes, an atmosphere as

familiar to Mr Blake as the smell of burning coke to a

railwayman.

Through the windows, the gusts of the waning January storms

still pulled the stripped branches of the trees this way and

that, though less violently now compared to the wild, winter

blasts that had mauled them in previous weeks. Violent was the

right word for the season it had been; and that, of course,

was the sole reason for Mr Blake’s presence in Newport at all

– men had died violent deaths, and it was his appointed duty

to investigate the matter to Her Majesty’s satisfaction.

The young clerk knocked lightly at the oak doors marked

‘Court Room No.1’, waited a respectful beat, then opened them

to the green-trimmed courtroom where a small group of suited

men were gathered before the bench.

“Mr Blake, sir! Welcome to the island!”

Mr Peabody was the senior magistrate on the island, and it

seemed that the Almighty had schemed to appoint Blake’s polar

opposite alongside him on the bench of the inquest. An apple-

cheeked and energetic man with impressive but slightly old-

fashioned sideburns, whose manner was effusive to the point of

irritation, Peabody cut a marked contrast with the tall,

phlegmatic and clean-shaven Blake, who used his words

sparingly, if at all. Peabody addressed the other men in the

room.

“Sirs, may I present Mr Frederick Blake, Her Majesty’s

Coroner for Hampshire County, presiding inquisitor. Mr Blake,

may I introduce Mr Henry Rudd, who will be taking the third

chair.” Peabody fussed around the men, continuing to introduce

the other members of the court as the handshakes ensued,

before launching off once again.

“I trust your journey was satisfactory? The crossing was not

too rough, I hope?” In truth, Blake had been green for most of

the two hours on the lurching steam ferry from Portsmouth, but

given the circumstances, he was struck by the insensitivity of

the question. He considered such mild privations unworthy of

comment in comparison to the tragedy they had been assigned to

unravel. “Yes, Mr Peabody, quite satisfactory, Now, to the

matter at hand…?”

“Quite, sir, quite!” cried the magistrate. “It’s a devilish

affair, this one! There will be some work ahead to get to the

bottom of this, hmm?” He arched his bushy eyebrows

theatrically, pursing moistened lips and appeared to be

waiting for the Coroner’s polite agreement, which never came.

“Yes, well, of course!” the magistrate pressed on. “You have

the appropriate documents and the lists: survivors, dead and

missing; witnesses, both able-bodied and those still in

hospital; and statements that have been submitted thus far.”

He indicated the neat portfolios placed upon the bench for the

three who would preside over the inquest. “Naturally I have

already attended to the jury selection, and that the key

witnesses shall attend the inquisition in turn as follows…”

As Peabody rattled on, Blake sat down at the bench and

leafed through the pages of documents. The initial statements

regarding the incident were quite disturbing, for the most

part. Mr Blake had been briefed by no less a personage than

the Solicitor General himself, pointing out that certain

witness statements in the case bore some troubling testimony

which may be of some embarrassment to the Crown. In the bland

language of the civil servant, Blake had been asked to

exercise the utmost discretion in his summarising, although he

did not infer at any point that he was to curtail or strike

testimony. It would fall to the Board of Trade inquiry, which

would not be sitting for several weeks, to wrangle with the

causes and effects of the tragedy, but for the moment, it

appeared that in the matter of the loss of eight lives aboard

the Sailing Vessel Irex, the findings of Mr Frederick Blake

were to be the sole arbiter of truth, insofar as the truth was

to be uncovered.

PART ONE

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the

running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;

And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,

And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls

crying.

- John Masefield, Sea Fever

CHAPTER ONE

Near Glasgow

Monday, 9th December 1889

Barely two months had passed, and already William Hutton was

decidedly restless ashore. It was said among mariners that the

sea was a fickle, (some would say cruel) mistress, and this

was true. Yet she had the most extraordinary and pervasive

pull on the spirits of men that no mere woman could hope to

equal. Hutton had stepped ashore at Greenock after another

gruelling nine-month odyssey, more than two hundred days at

sea – days of relentless battles with weather, malnutrition,

disease and of course, the sea herself; then there was that

peculiar condition, known only to sailing masters and long-

term prisoners, of utter loneliness for weeks on end.

Upon his return, Hutton had spent several days alone with

his gentle Sarah, who had made the unenviable choice in her

life to be a seaman’s wife. Time took on a very different

character for the wife left behind; when she waved away a

husband before a voyage, she knew too well that even should

the voyage go to plan, it would be at least eight months

before she would see him again. If there were complications,

that time could stretch from upwards of a year all the way to

eternity.

Even if she were joyfully reunited at the appointed time, it

was to a man who was a hollow and distant echo of the one she

waved away – hardened by harsh experience. Malnourished, with

sinew and bone pushing through skin as brown and dry as old

leather; with coarse hair, perhaps a few teeth short, sporting

any number of cuts, scars, lesions and boils; sometimes

missing a digit, or even a limb. Beyond the physical ravages,

there was always something else – a shadow behind the eyes, a

perceptible reflection of things seen, things done, things

said; events which had scarred his soul, and which could never

be articulated to the wholesome, fragrant woman who sought

only to salve and comfort. Her moist lips and soft body, so

sorely missed for months, simply became too much to savour at

once, such was her jarring contrast to the harshness he had

endured for long months at sea.

Sometimes, once he had found his voice again, Hutton would

regale his wife with the wonders he had seen – dancing aurorae

in the polar skies, vast icebergs that could sink ships,

exotic peoples and their verdant, mysterious homelands. But of

the bitterest moments of his voyages, he had little, if

anything, to say. It was challenging enough to adjust to the

new sensation of being intimate again with someone known and

loved; he still felt strangely distant, as if the luxury of

human company, intimate touch and the trust of another were

things forbidden, although they were never withheld.

The life of a sailing master was indeed a lonely one.

Hutton’s paymasters were the distinguished family that ran

the illustrious ship owners and trading firm of J.D. Clink and

Co. of Greenock. At least that is what he would tell any

person who asked; to him, they were a second-degree company

who ran their affairs with a degree of parsimony that was

notable even for the times. Their interests lay principally in

ships, trade, and shareholders – any other matters were

secondary, or in the case of the beasts of burden they

employed as crew, inconsequential. In their favour, (and for

this Hutton was grudgingly grateful) they allowed the masters

of their vessels a degree of autonomy that was positively

liberal, and dividends for the master were relatively

generous. It was a point of deep regret to Hutton that he and

Sarah did not adopt the custom encouraged by many of the ship

operators: that a captain should take his wife along for the

months-long journey.

Hutton had once served as third mate on a flying West Indian

clipper, where his captain, the highly-esteemed Mr Corden, had

kept a marvellous wife alongside him – a motherly presence to

the young apprentices, and trusted friend to the forecastle

crew. She had once darned Hutton’s socks, an act he considered

an excessive benevolence amid the grim life aboard ship.

Indeed, she had made herself the darling of all hands: a soft,

even-tempered foil to the brash, hard men around them. Her

humanity was a warming presence in the coldness of the

inhumane all around; she seemed to carry an impregnable aura

of civility, so that around her was never heard a single

blasphemy or profanity – the men themselves had seen to that.

One look from her studied eye would evoke a red-faced shame in

the face of an intemperate crewman, however drunk.

Hutton often wondered whether the presence of his own

gentle-spirited Sarah might not ease his own journeys with the

roughneck crews he encountered at Clink and Co. – after all,

only an empty nest beckoned to her at home. Good sailing crews

were hard to find – easier times were to be had aboard

steamships these days – and those that were regularly

available tended to hail from the tougher environs of Glasgow,

London and Liverpool. But each time he mulled the benefits

that a pretty and kind Christian woman might provide to the

men aboard, he arrived back at the unavoidable conclusion that

his wife’s kindness was not matched by the vitality and

resilience essential to survive the sea, who was a cruel

mistress indeed. Her constitution was not well-suited to such

demands, and he surmised, as she did, that her presence would

become an extra burden in an already heavy load. As far as

Hutton was concerned, the sea was his jealous mistress alone,

who would not tolerate a competitor for his attention as soon

as the ship left the harbour.

Separation bred wonderful benefits of its own – coming home

was the sweetest sensation Hutton ever experienced, and it

never lost its excitement nor its power. Being reunited with

Sarah was akin to a desert-parched man’s first draught of

water for Hutton; such was the whirlwind of physical release

regaining one other as husband and wife. But he usually

discovered, with profound guilt, that he soon tired of her

constant company, pleasurable as it was.

In his nine months of absence it had been Sarah, not he, who

had run the household, handling the hundreds of everyday

crises and mishaps that are part of home and family life. As

Hutton had faced storms, torn sails, shifting cargoes and

injured crewmen, Sarah had battled sickness and doctors’

bills, food shortages, falling roof tiles and church politics.

Whereas Hutton was silent about his own battles, he found

Sarah’s voluble accounts of hers as wearisome as she found

them cathartic. And in their most tender exchanges as husband

and wife, when she coaxed from him those most profound

expressions of his soul, he found himself becoming

uncomfortable; he sought space from the strong emotions that

crowded him, as if afraid they might take root in his

consciousness and reduce him in his own eyes to a lesser man.

For there was nothing Hutton feared in life as much as

losing his considerable powers of self-control, self-

confidence and self-awareness; their loss would be as

injurious to him as losing an eye or a leg. To lose them would

be to lose the very heart of the sea captain that beat within

him, the unflappable confidence that informed his every

thought both at sea and ashore; but worse, to lose his sea

command would indelibly separate him from his dark, brooding

mistress, the sea herself, without whose ministrations he was

doomed to be simply ordinary.

Hutton lay awake in their bed in his comfortable home, as

his wife slept fitfully beside him. The night before a

departure had always been the worst night to sleep, and this

night seemed worse than most. They were alone in the house,

Hutton having said his goodbyes to his two grown-up children

the day before – they lived in their own homes in Glasgow and

had gone back up before their own busy lives began that

morning. Hutton’s son was in the final year of his

apprenticeship, though there was no seafaring life for him –

he had secured indentures with a company of attorneys – and

the girl, a nineteen-year-old facsimile of her mother, was

preparing for her own daunting voyage, heading off to the

missions with her new husband, a serious, young Baptist

minister. Hutton remembered the wedding more than two years

ago. He had recently returned from a voyage on his last ship,

the Pomona – a fine three-masted clipper of 1200 tons. The

family had insisted on waiting until his return - this didn’t

endear him to his new in-laws, adding several months to their

fiscal plans, but his subsequent dividend cheered them

somewhat as a substantial contribution to his daughter’s

dowry. It occurred to him in the same thought that since then

he had completed two more voyages as captain. Life goes on,

with or without me.

He stared into a thick darkness, for gaslights had not been

installed in his village, and with the moon hidden behind the

scudding clouds, and the thick drapes across the windows, the

darkness was almost absolute.

He smoothed his hand behind his head, and breathed slowly in

and out. His heart had finally stopped pounding from the dream

that had awoken him this time, another of the jittery phantoms

that usually plagued him before every trip. He often dreamed

of sailing, but never in any amusing or whimsical fashion –

no, his sailing dreams always featured fantastical calamities:

leaving port without charts, sextant or clock; sailing into

tiny inlets with no hope of being able to extricate the ship;

and then of course there was the surreal: sailing a ship with

only one mast, or a crew of children, or, like this night, a

voyage beset by monsters. This monster in particular sent a

chill throughout his body, a black, vicious prowling beast

that was found aboard the ship, a predator with only eyes,

claws and teeth, terrorising his crew and closing relentlessly

on his cabin as he watched, terrified but powerless to stop

its progress.

So Hutton breathed, allowed himself to fully wake, and with

his ears searched out the many small sounds that occupied the

darkness – unfamiliar sounds to one whose senses were tuned to

the groans of steel hulls, the snap of sails and the creaks of

hemp and steel cables.

Satisfied that he was not going to drop back into his

disturbing dreams, he stirred over onto his side, while his

wife sighed and turned in sympathy. Hutton thought again of

the possibility of being able to share his bed at sea with

Sarah – it would be a rare thing – and let his mind wander to

ideas of trading in his contract with Clink of Greenock to

perhaps seek out a berth with one of the more reputable

Glasgow companies that better suited such frivolity. After

all, he was barely fifty, had several successful voyages

behind him, and was building on his fine record as a seaman,

mate and master…

A sudden gust of wind outside the window whipped his drowsy

musings into sharp wakefulness. A man who had spent his life

at sea could read the wind like an ordinary man read a

newspaper. The slightest veer or gust speaks its intent to a

seaman, and Hutton could tell that this was a south-westerly

that promised worse to come. It would mean a busy and

challenging day if he and his new ship were going to make the

right impression on her new owners. As the possibilities,

calamities and solutions raced through Hutton’s mind, he

became aware of his wife’s changed breathing and turned to

sense her eyes open, looking at him beyond the darkness.

“Try to sleep, my love.” she murmured. Though he had kept

her largely ignorant of the various indignities that seafaring

inflicted upon the human body, mind and spirit, Sarah had a

wife’s instinctive, intimate knowledge of him that defied his

silences. She just knew. “. You’ll be fine I’ll be fine. The

Lord knows.” Having spoken this peace over him, her breathing

changed once again, and she slipped back into sleep.

Hutton was a man of what was commended as “good Christian

character” – that highly valued middle-class combination of

status, charity and reserve. He knew that he and Sarah shared

a much greater commitment to the Christian religion than the

conventional piety of the times; Hutton had been ordained as a

lay minister in the Baptist tradition for several years, while

his wife believed in the Almighty God and her Saviour with a

special, personal fervour. It seemed natural to him that

civilised people should add a fear of God to their endeavours;

in Hutton’s experience, his God had never failed to preserve

their fortunes as husband and wife, whether together or, as

was more frequently the case, apart. Hutton tried to mark

Greenwich midnight each day on his travels, as he knew that

was when Sarah would be praying for his safe passage and

courage in the face of challenge; this was often difficult in

practice, as midnight in Glasgow was six a.m. in Bombay, four

p.m. in San Francisco and midday in Sydney.

It was such a symbol of the modern age that men could be so

mobile on the face of the earth! Had God ever wished for us to

take such command of his realm? Did He feel threatened by our

brazen wresting of his sovereignty over the earth? Of course

not, mused Hutton, for there was always the sea. Man would

never be in control, not of the elemental forces that

commanded the sea; the indifferent deep would always wield its

power, shrugging off human lives as thoughtlessly as a man

killed microbes with carbolic soap.

These musings were allowing the tiredness Hutton felt to

overcome the thousand petty anxieties that the prospect of a

winter voyage inflicts on a captain; he barely registered the

distant chimes of the church clock that told him it was three

a.m., and slipped into a mercifully dreamless slumber, to

await the dawn.

The Huttons avoided painful goodbyes by the expedient of

simplicity. There were no open-ended conversations, no

unresolved business; merely a final hug, kisses, a few

privately-shed tears, and the simplest of words. They prayed –

as they always did – then Hutton took his leave, with his sea

trunk, navigational instruments and day bag packed into the

company carriage sent from Greenock to fetch him.

The wind still whipped around Sarah, who cut an upright but

slightly forlorn figure as she waved from the step, knowing

she would not hear from her husband for many months. In recent

years, the luxury of telegrams had made it possible to hear

word from her husband, their rarity providing a very welcome

surprise. The cost of such contact was prohibitive, and

usually only materialised if Hutton had managed to conduct

some side-business of his own; the consequence being that

telegrams would be stamped from such diverse places as Durban

or Jakarta rather than the heaving ports of San Francisco or

Calcutta.

Hutton watched her waving figure recede, knowing she would

wait until the coach was gone before retreating to her bedroom

to sob out the waves of emotion she managed to hold back

whilst in public view; his own thoughts remained trapped

within the minutiae of preparation, troubled only occasionally

by the gnawing sense of shame he felt at subjecting such a

fine woman to a life of relative separation. He resolved to

seek out a berth with Carmichaels of Glasgow upon his return –

after all, there had only ever been one person in his life

whom he would ever have willingly shared a sea voyage; yet he

had just left her weeping behind him, condemning her to be

apart from him for months to come. He offered silent prayers

to their God for Sarah’s well-being and comfort; such prayers

brought none to himself, for he wrestled with the unwelcome

sense that the only person who could ensure her comfort was

leaving her behind once again.

As the village faded out behind him, so his thoughts grew

ever more focused on the voyage ahead. He had spent many days

with his reliable first mate Irvine and the crotchety

sailmaker Colquhoun, planning and cutting the sails for the

first of these winter voyages – it would be a maiden voyage

for their stout new ship, launched just two months ago; as

such her sailing characteristics were impossible to fully

gauge. The three men combined almost a hundred years of

sailing experience between them, which would ensure that their

ship would depart with the best sail they could carry.

The carriage jostled round the road from the Timber Ponds on

the banks of the Clyde, clearing the hills that blocked the

view that always brought him mixed emotions – the man-made

forest of masts and belching chimneys that signalled the port

of Greenock. They stood out against the white and grey clouds

that blanketed the restless sky, a latticework of black masts

and lines that intersected at all angles, a dazzling sight for

an landsman, but one that made the seaman’s heart inside Will

Hutton beat faster, and summoned the hum of nervous energy

that galvanised him while he rehearsed the mental preparations

for safely navigating his particular vessel from among the

mess of masts and hulls to the open sea.

The scenery rapidly changed, merging from the pleasant

rolling hills and green slopes of God’s hand to the fire and

metal that was Man’s modern industrial landscape. The road now

followed the main Glasgow railway line, and Hutton regarded

the modern locomotives rushing carriages of passengers, First,

Second and Third Class, towards the port, and others returning

with their precious cargoes of jute, grain, wool and meat,

brought from the corners of the Empire by men such as he. Next

he passed the gas works and timber yards of Port Glasgow, and

then smelled rather than saw the point that it merged into the

industrial centre of Greenock itself. The giant foundries

belched acrid fumes, smoke being whipped by the wind from the

impossibly tall chimneys as the steel for the next generation

of ships was poured – berths lay side by side as new keels

were laid, and other hulls rose from the blocks and ways as

hundreds of grimy figures toiled to bring them into being. It

was an act of creation on a scale unseen in the whole of human

history – Hephaestus himself never had a workshop like this.

“Clydebuilt” was still the final word in ship construction,

and any man who went out in a Clydebuilt ship had a fighting

chance in almost any sea.

Hutton was being drawn in, energised in his task like a

dropped coal replaced in a fire. Thoughts of home and Sarah

were banished, without any conscious effort on his part, as he

drew closer to the heart of the docklands. The sounds of

industry, the roar of furnaces, the shock and crash of large

metal pieces being dropped and placed, the hammering of rivets

and the pulsing of steam engines was a continuous dissonance

that drowned out any other sound. Only the piercing cry of

seagulls was any reminder that this was the same world in

which he had awoken, that Nature was still scrapping for the

right to survive in spite of Man’s desire to conquer it

through his industry and ingenuity. And yet there was still

the rushing wind, blowing the smoke and fumes in a relentless

swirl around the yards, reminding Man once again that though

he was master of many things, the natural processes of the

earth remained tantalisingly beyond his control.

All at once, they had attained the town and the entrance to

the docks. Now, amid the brick and stone facades of the recent

Victorian edifices and the humped, cobbled streets lined with

modern gas lighting, there existed another hum of human

activity, of a different intensity to the choking industrial

sector; here there were simply hundreds of people, their

clothing and faces a vibrant reflection of the Empire, teeming

in a constant blur of movement, like a nest of exotic insects

upturned and scattered. Trams rolled up and down the streets,

their bells ringing constantly as pedestrians mazed between

them, tempting fate; carts and carriages moved among the mess

of people like barges parting the waters. Here and there

played small tragedies – beggars, blind and lame seamen

desperate for relief and the ministrations of the ubiquitous

charity workers and latterly, Salvation Army soldiers; an

upset cart, its last movement a step too far for the law of

gravity, had spilled its precious load of peaches – its

distraught driver attempted to salvage what he could,

screaming damnation at the swiftly gathered opportunists and

urchins who descended on the site of his misfortune to pillage

these precious treasures from the manure-spread gutter.

Hutton’s carriage slowed, negotiating the crush of people to

reach the entrance gate to the Victoria Dock, where his new

ship awaited. Free from the thronging crowds on the main

street, the carriage clattered through the high gate and

entered the dock.

A different level of frenetic activity seized this part of

the town – a long queue of immigrants and passengers attended

the Customs House, while the row of large warehouses were a

jumbled mass of shouts, bids and counter-offers as the morning

trade picked up. Dozens of horses and vans were lined up ready

to distribute the spoils of Empire to the corners of the

Mother Country. A bewildering buzz of voices, accents and

languages underlay the cries of gulls, the hissing of the

ubiquitous steam cranes and loaders, and finally, the sound of

the sea. This was Hutton’s place, and as the carriage followed

the tramlines along the dockside where the huge cranes rolled,

he picked out the ship, his ship, from the rows of latticed

masts, and his heart gave an involuntary leap.

The carriage pulled to a stop and Hutton stepped out into

the sharp, blustery wind to take in the sight of Clink and

Co.’s newest and grandest addition – the full-rigged sailing

ship Irex.

Chapter Two

Isle of Wight

Tuesday, 4th February 1890

The Clerk to the Court called proceedings to order as Mr

Blake and his two colleagues took their places at the bench.

Blake explained the purpose and scope of the inquest (“to

determine, to Her Majesty’s satisfaction, the cause and

circumstances of the deaths aboard the sailing vessel Irex

during the period from 10th December 1889 to 26th January

1890”) and proceeded to brief the jury of twelve men. He had

no sooner finished when a liveried clerk entered by the double

doors opposite the bench. The constable, stationed outside to

prevent casual and uninvited gawkers from entering the court

in session, followed immediately behind, and a small buzz of

interest followed among the dozen or so gathered in the

courtroom.

The clerk received permission to approach the bench, and a

sealed letter was passed to Blake. He remained unfussed,

placing his half-moon spectacles on his nose, opening the

envelope and unfolding the thin telegram paper contained

within. He read it, frowning, and his mouth twisted in

displeasure, but swiftly recovered. Peabody the magistrate, to

his left, practically wriggled in anticipation, and it was all

he could do to hold his tongue.

Blake passed him the telegram. The buzz of conversation

reached a level intolerable to the Clerk to the Court, a

beefy, well-fed man with a serious, almost menacing demeanour,

who snapped the gallery to order. Peabody skimmed the telegram

in seconds, his bushy eyebrows knitted in a frown that

mirrored Blake’s. The clerk then passed it to Rudd, the lesser

figure of the triumvirate on Blake’s right; he read it, pursed

his lips and sent it back to Blake.

Blake leaned forward, steepled his fingers and glanced at

the Clerk, who approached the bench. At a few low words from

Blake, he nodded, moved front and centre and, facing the

courtroom doors, announced “Clear the Court!”

The jury bailiff immediately moved to usher the jury through

their side door, whilst the two attendants either side of the

doors did the same for the small group of newspapermen,

visitors and interested parties. The constable closed the

door, leaving the three on the bench with the Clerk and

stenographer, all men quiet, as the quiet hiss of the central

heating and ticking of the large clock on the side wall seemed

to amplify in the silence.

Finally Mr Blake addressed them.

“I should like to record that at the request of the Lord

Chancellor, this inquest shall be henceforth conducted in

closed court. Mr Clerk, the jury is dismissed; only witnesses,

advocates and officers of the Court shall be admitted as long

as the court is in session. Are my instructions clear?”

“Perfectly clear sir. The inquest is in closed court.”

“Very well. We shall adjourn until nine o’clock tomorrow

morning.”

The Clerk turned smartly to the court reporter, who finished

picking at the new stenograph machine and presented the roll

to him. One of the attendants passed outside into the

colonnade corridor and his words were lost as the door closed

behind him. The raised voices of protest from the newspapermen

that met his words were still audible through the oak.

“As I said, Mr Blake, a devilish affair indeed.” murmured

Peabody. “Why should The Lord Chancellor, of all people, not

only take an interest in our provincial shipwreck, but seek to

influence the proceedings? I have never heard of such

manoeuvring.”

Rudd actually looked stricken, agitated and wide-eyed; but

Blake merely stood, shuffled his papers and retrieved his

portmanteau from the floor to receive them.

“Gentlemen, I entrust this matter to your extreme

discretion.”

The somewhat embarrassed agreement of his colleagues

immediately followed this statement, so Blake dismissed the

court staff and stepped down to the floor. The disturbed

weather of yesterday had finally blown itself out, giving way

to a hard frost, and a stillness that was uneasy after almost

two months of continuous south-westerly blasts. Mr Blake did

not relish leaving the drowsy warmth of the court house for

the freezing pinch outside, but he felt sure that a brisk ride

back to his hotel would surely focus his mind in preparation

for the report he would write.

Blake pushed open the hotel reception door to a welcome wave

of raw, dry heat created by the well-stocked fire crackling in

the hearth of the lounge. The receptionist was also the

landlady; a vivacious, well-preserved woman in middle age, she

offered a cheerful greeting and retrieved his key. He had

tried to converse politely with her, according to custom, on

his day of arrival; but she had swept aside his pleasantries

with an overpowering familiarity that was disconcerting, even

brazen. He was prepared to endure another bout of this before

escaping to his room.

“How are we, Mr Blake? You’re looking a mite troubled, if I

may say! I can offer you a nice cup of tea and a cuddle by the

fire if it would help?” Mrs Orchard’s coquettish affectations

were slightly wearing – though by no means unattractive, she

projected her fading beauty with immodesty, rendering her

overt flirtation with any male that fell within her orbit

tedious rather than alluring. Blake imagined her thirty years

before, probably the local belle, hotly pursued by the worthy

men of the parish as a trophy wife. It was a common fate for a

woman endowed with youth and uncommon beauty; married too

soon, only to be left on the shelf before her time by the

early death of a much older husband.

Mrs Orchard, to her great credit, had done well for herself

once those attributes had waned; she had used whatever wealth

she undoubtedly had accrued from the arrangement to make

herself a decent living. She ran a tight house, striking a

shrewd balance between frugality in expenditure with good

housekeeping and comfortable hospitality. It was possible to

consider her best days as still before her, as a free woman of

self-sufficient means; yet she clung to her pretensions of

outward beauty, probably because she had been judged by that

sole criterion her entire life. Blake longed to tell her this,

but feared opening the door to her prurient entreaties.

“No thank you, Mrs Orchard – most kind, but I have much work

to do.”

Blake was thus ensconced in his room at around three p.m.,

perusing the court papers and particularly the witness

statements at his desk, when he heard heavy footfalls in the

corridor outside. They stopped outside his door, and he was

already rising from the desk when three loud, rapid knocks

rattled it on its hinges. He opened to find a red-faced Mr

Peabody.

“Mr Blake, I have some terrible news”, Peabody announced

without his customary preamble. “Mr Rudd has met with a most

unfortunate accident. I am very afraid to tell you that he is

quite dead. I’m sorry, sir.”

Blake absorbed this information with surprising reserve, and

opened the door wide. “Come, come inside. What happened, Mr

Peabody?”

Peabody stepped into the room, shaking somewhat, whether

from the cold or the shock, Blake couldn’t tell. The men took

seats around the fire – Blake taking the time to light his

pipe as Mr Peabody considered where to start, eyeing Blake for

a cue that never came.

“It was a horse! A cab horse, as I believe. It bolted down

Main Street as the unfortunate man was leaving the main

telegraph office. He was struck hard and his neck was broken.

A most unfortunate accident, Mr Blake. He was taken to the

hospital but they were quite unable to revive him, of course.”

“Indeed?”

“A constable attended shortly afterwards, as you know the

constabulary is only opposite” – naturally, Blake did not know

this, but let the point drop – “but there seemed to be no

reason why the horse should bolt like that.”

Blake remembered the placid horse that had drawn his cab

from the station that morning: a skinny mare that endured the

weather and cold with a stoic calm. He was not a horse person,

and only had seen enough of their behaviour in service to

wonder why such large, powerful animals allowed themselves

such quiet acquiescence to the will of humanity. Evidently,

they were not altogether predictable, even in their quietude.

Blake only pondered this for a moment.

“Mr Peabody”, he spoke at last. “It has been a day of

remarkable events.” The other man nodded, believing the

taciturn coroner to have said his piece. His assumption was

far from correct in this instance. “However, in my experience,

a multiplicity of such remarkable events is never to be taken

lightly. How did you travel here?”

Peabody’s bushy eyebrows shot up at this unexpected tack.

“Why, I came by my carriage, Mr Blake. It occurred to me that

expedience was of the essence.”

“Very well, sir. If I may request your transport this

afternoon, I should quite like to know what Mr Rudd was doing

at the telegraph office today.”

Within the hour, Blake and Peabody were in the main

telegraph office in Newport, a humbler annexe of the much

grander Post Office next door. They had passed a pair of

dishevelled looking street sweepers on the way in, the only

outward sign that their erstwhile colleague had died at this

very spot that morning. They now stood, hats in their hands,

in the administrative office, facing the Postmaster across his

desk.

Postmaster Rogers was a paragon of obstructive Victorian

bureaucracy, and Peabody was in the process of being carefully

obstructed as Blake watched impassively.

“Sirs, as you well know, the Telegraph Service is part of

the Royal Mail, and as such I may not divulge any information

as to the content of any –“

“Yes, yes, of course, Postmaster Rogers!” Peabody’s face was

redder than ever, whether from the cold outside or the mental

strain of maintaining his patience with the bureaucracy of Her

Majesty’s Postal Service. “We are enquiring as to the nature

of the communication, rather than its content!”

“Sirs, I could only divulge such a thing if the

distinguished gentlemen were able to provide a court order to

that effect?” the harassed Postmaster added hopefully.

The men remained stumped, there being no criminal case or

jurisdiction to justify such a request. As yet the

constabulary were unwilling to ascribe any foul play to the

unexplained accident and by the time yet another inquest was

ordered, the Irex proceedings would have been likely long

concluded.

The Postmaster’s office was small, and the two bigger men

crowded in created a claustrophobic presence over Rogers’

desk. Blake leaned forward and held the Postmaster with his

level gaze. “What can you tell us, Mr Rogers?”

The man slumped slightly in deference, and momentarily

decided to reach for a flip-fronted clipboard to one side of

his desk. He adjusted his own glasses and scanned the front

page. “Sir, I can tell you that Mr Rudd came in just after

one-thirty, just as we reopened after lunch. I can confirm

that he sent a communication, that it ran to thirty words, and

that it was sent to an exchange in London. That is all I am

permitted to divulge. I’m sorry, sir”

Blake considered that everyone had been sorry to him today,

with the possible exception of the Lord Chancellor, who had

simply expressed regret. Nevertheless, the information was not

without merit – thirty words was a very long telegram to send

to London, and must have cost Mr Rudd a considerable sum. It

was extremely unlikely to Blake that such a communication was

unrelated to the events of the morning, and he concluded that

Mr Rudd may have been working at cross-purposes to his

inquest. Another thought struck him.

“Has anyone else sent or received a telegram from here this

morning?”

Rogers consulted his clipboard again. “Sir, as it happens,

yes. A gentleman cabled ten words to an exchange in Glasgow at

ten seventeen. North Country accent, I believe.” In this

industrial age, men could be so precise with their timings.

Blake considered that this would be a reasonable time from his

curtailment of proceedings that morning at nine-thirty for a

local newspaperman from Glasgow to make the unwelcome

announcement to his livid employers. Rogers added his final

verdict.

“That was the end of it, save Mr Rudd, God rest his soul;

that was all the traffic of the morning, apart from our

regular customers.”

“Thank you. We are in your debt, Postmaster. We shall not

need to bother you again, unless our inquest into Mr Rudd’s

unfortunate death should require a subpoena of your records.”

He noted the flicker of fear across the Postmaster’s features.

“I assume you keep copies of all correspondence for the

record?” The flicker of fear became more of a persistent

tremble.

Peabody had evidently seen the same twitch. It was he who

pounced first.

“Would you like to consider again if there was another

telegram, Mr Rogers? Perhaps one received?”

“Well, sirs, you did not ask me about –”

“Mr Rogers!”

The Postmaster looked increasingly uncomfortable; lying was

not something to which he was accustomed. He licked his lips

and began to stammer, but Peabody cut him short.

“Are you going to stand before men of character, in the

course of a legal inquiry where people have died, while our

esteemed colleague was killed outside this very office, and

brazen it out? Speak, man!”

Postmaster Rogers looked dazed, and in a thin voice stripped

of its earlier efficient tone, the story came out. “At eleven

sharp, another gentleman cabled thirteen words to London, and

received a reply at eleven twenty-three of twenty words.”

A request, and very probably an answer, or instructions,

surmised Blake.

Peabody twisted the knife. “Mr Rogers, I am duty bound to

tell you that all records kept on Her Majesty’s Service are to

be presented under subpoena within two days. I should be most

disappointed if such records were unavailable.”

Blake had regarded this entire exchange with interest. It

seemed Peabody was more than just a provincial bumbler – a

perceptive mind was evident, if well-hidden, and he could

certainly pull his weight in a fight. Perhaps his verbose

jollity was all part of his act, the very thing that made him

a successful lawyer and magistrate.

The hapless postmaster squirmed uncomfortably, clearly upset

with the line of questioning. “Well, yes, sir, naturally I,

er, would make such records available.”

Peabody lunged in again, his voice triumphant at this turn

in his favour. “Very good, Mr Rogers! Very good indeed! I

should of course make the request through the Postmaster

General’s Office to ensure the closest attention, don’t you

think, man?”

Before he could stammer a reply, Blake fixed him again, and

hissed through clenched teeth. “Who was it, Rogers? Did he

threaten you, or pay you off?” The final shot was fired, and

the Postmaster wilted at last.

“Sirs, I am sorry!” Blake bristled at the sentiment, yet

again. “It was an Officer of the Crown! He ordered me to

destroy the facsimiles of the message and the reply. I swear

this is true!”

“What manner of Crown Officer?” Blake persisted.

“God help me, sir, I don’t know! I know he was a man of

influence, as he bore a commission with the Royal Warrant. If

he told me to keep quiet, I fear I have already betrayed his

confidence!” cried the wretched postman.

Blake pushed harder. He leaned in further, towards the man

who was using his desk as a barrier, his tall frame and long

arms easily spanning the expanse of desk and pressing into the

space occupied by the thoroughly intimidated postmaster, whose

chair was tightly crammed against the wall.

“I need to see Rudd’s telegram, if you haven’t done the

devil’s work with it too? Fetch it immediately.”

The postmaster’s mouth worked wordlessly, as he found

himself crushed between the twin Victorian pillars of

servility and rectitude. He merely nodded, and Blake pushed

himself upright from the desk, the picture of self-possessed

civility again, allowing the shaken postman to sidle round the

desk and squeeze past them through the door.

In the moments they found themselves alone, the chatter of

the teleprinters and the acrid, metallic tang of electrical

equipment impinged on their senses.

It was difficult to imagine a more modern room in the world

than a telegraph office, such was the marvel of sending

messages across the world in a blink of an eye. A letter could

take two weeks to travel from New York to London; a telegram

took mere hours. News in these times was instantaneous by

comparison to previous ages; mankind had never before had such

a wealth and immediacy of information. And yet, its access was

subject to the same bureaucratic controls as the post. It

would do man well to be free of such restrictions if his hold

on the elemental powers of the earth were to increase.

Presently the postmaster returned, clutching an onionskin

copy of the telegram sent by Mr Rudd not three hours ago. His

fear had morphed into a sullen resentment, which he was not

adept at hiding.

“It must not leave this office. You understand, gentlemen? I

have done quite enough already to assist you in this matter.”

Blake and Peabody ignored him, the shorter man craning to

read the script in faint lettering on the facsimile copy.

++URGENT++ DR FOSTER STOP ++ AS EXPCTED INQST NOW IN CLSED

COURT STOP ++ WTNESS STMTS UNEQVCL STOP ++ CONFM CLARENCE RPT

CLARENCE NAMED IN PAPERS STOP ++ BENCH NOT CMPRMISED STOP ++

AM BEING OBSVD STOP ++ RPLY WTH CARE STOP ++ RUDD STOP ++

“It’s not code, but he has tried to cover his tracks in some

way”, mused Peabody. “That reads ‘Witness statements

unequivocal’… Good lord, he’s leaking the details of the case!

‘Clarence’ – wasn’t he one of the passengers? ‘Bench not

compromised’, ‘Am being observed’? What does he mean?”

Blake read the words with a sense of mild alarm, and

committed the words to memory before handing the sheet back to

the Postmaster. “Thank you, Mr Rogers. You have been most

helpful.” They turned to leave, the Postmaster looking

positively stricken. “What shall I do if he returns? Our Crown

Officer?”

This time it was Peabody who leaned in. “You will tell one

of us, young fellow. Send word to us at the courthouse

immediately. And do not tell another soul. Understand?”

The man nodded. Blake looked back into the face of his

colleague, where a new eagerness seemed to glint in eyes, the

very beginnings of a smile turning the corners of his mouth.

The thrill of the chase, thought Blake, and he felt it too. An

understanding had been exchanged between the two men, and they

moved up to the front door, taking extra care to check up and

down the road before stepping out. With a final glance back at

the Postmaster, they turned up the street to retrieve the

magistrate’s carriage.

CHAPTER THREE

Greenock

Tuesday, 10th December 1889

The Irex truly was a modern leviathan. A steel-built, three-

masted, square-rigged ship, with stout masts and yards, and

steel cables for the fixed stays anchoring them, she was

immense and very strong compared to the wooden ships of

yesteryear. More than three hundred feet long, her masts

towered over two hundred feet above the deck. She was more

than twice the size of Hutton’s flying clippers of twenty

years ago, and could carry almost double her own weight in

cargo. Even more impressive than her dimensions, she was built

to be fast. She could carry acres of sail aloft, so that with

a fair wind, in good trim, she could sustain almost 15 knots,

making her faster than any steamer of comparable size,

provided that the wind continued to blow steadily.

Hutton stood near the rail admiring her broad teak deck,

every fixture pristine, new and sturdy. He had to concede that

Clink had ordered a fine ship; moreover, they had not scrimped

on its quality in any way.

It was a shame that they hadn’t made the same investment in

the men selected to sail her. Hutton, as master, had a free

hand in the selection of his crew, though regrettably there

was not an especially encouraging pool of contracted Clink

seamen available. He was pleased to add to his new ship the

services of Andrew Irvine, the first mate, and sailmaker

Colquhoun, both of whom he considered to be hood choices.

The boatswain, or bosun as he was known to all aboard, was

less to his liking – as the senior seaman, the bosun was the

critical member of the crew on a long voyage. As the link

between the officers and the crew, and usually the most

experienced seaman on the ship, the bosun was relied upon to a

greater degree than he was necessarily reliable, and this was

a potential source of tension during a tough voyage. Bosun

Frank Hanson was a gruff man who more than once had tested

Hutton’s patience with his second-guessing and unsolicited

opinions. In addition, he gave off the unmistakeable aura of

the sea-bully – a hard-looking man, short of patience, who

might be a little too quick to use his hands when berating a

seaman. Hutton imagined that handling Hanson would be harder

than the rest of the crew combined.

Hutton moved towards the aft end of the ship, noting the

ever-increasing gusts of wind, and the whitecaps in the

estuary beyond the breakwaters of the Victoria Dock.

Ultimately it was the master’s decision to sail, but he was

keen to keep his schedule, given that other ships were

departing Greenock and Glasgow for the same destination in the

following weeks, and competition was fierce. He would need to

confer with the skipper of the steam tug – if it could not

make way with the six thousand tons of the Irex, they would

not be going anywhere today.

Hutton mounted the stairway at the end of the deck that led

to the raised, stern portion – the quarterdeck. Here was the

ships wheel, binnacle (compass) and barometer, sheltered from

the elements by a crescent-shaped pulpit with a curved roof.

From here the helmsman would direct the wheel under the orders

of the officer of the watch. From this vantage point, with no

sails set, Hutton could see clear up the enormous deck to the

end of the bowsprit, and felt a surge of pride, tinged with

apprehension. Soon, he would take this fine ship out to the

open sea, and sail to Rio de Janeiro, the burgeoning former

Portuguese colony that perched precariously at the foot of

dizzying, jungle-covered mountains, fronted by the

extraordinary rock pinnacle known as Sugar Loaf Mountain.

The cargo was already loaded – it had taken more than two

weeks, Irvine having supervised the final preparations over

the past three days. While not spectacular, it would be

comfortably profitable: 3300 tons of iron drainage pipes and

pig iron to meet the needs of an expanding and vibrant city.

For the men it was undoubtedly one of the better

destinations - rum was plentiful, as were the dusky and

beautiful women; both were also ruinously cheap. Though this

was wildly attractive to the penurious seamen themselves, it

fell as a debit for the captain; cheap rum and cheap women

almost guaranteed that Hutton would lose some of his crew to

their clutches throughout the month or so that they would be

in port.

But such considerations were a world away from the present;

it seemed unlikely that the Irex would be going anywhere as

long as the southwesterly winds continued to gain strength. In

the glass (as the barometer was known), the mercury had

dropped eight points – a precipitous drop in six hours. It was

almost certain that a storm front was approaching; the

question was whether Hutton could gather his crew and reach

open sea before it hit. Hutton was optimistic of his chances,

provided they could run against the Bute Race, a notorious

current that ran strongly between the island of Bute and the

smaller islands of Cumbrae that straddled the Firth of Clyde.

Sailing time had been set for 4 p.m. – or eight bells by the

afternoon watch – and it was already 11.45 as the crew arrived

from their boarding and doss houses in singles and small

groups. Hutton took up office in his room, as the individual

accommodations were called. As captain, he earned this

comfortable space, with table, writing desk, wardrobe and

bunk, and the vital luxury of a private WC and bath. It even

had a proper, square window, though it could not open; this

deficiency was compensated by an opening porthole further

along.

Hutton’s room was in that part of the stern area beneath the

quarterdeck known collectively as the cabin, and shared with

five other smart rooms – another private room for Irvine, the

chief mate; a shared berth for the two other officers; and

three generous staterooms for passengers. The spacious bulk of

the Irex also allowed for a separate chart room, out of bounds

to all but the Captain and the Watch Officers. Within was a

flat, open-topped table for chart work; various meticulously

kept instruments, though senior mariners usually kept their

own; a mass of books, astronomical tables and logs; and the

ship’s voyage log itself, the most important legal record of

the journey to come, and the jealously guarded property of the

Captain himself.

Next to the log was the large loose-leaf pad known as the

slate, wherein the watch officers would record the ship’s

speed, course, position and daily run, in addition to other

pertinent information. This would then be transferred into the

log in permanent ink by Hutton alone, or, in the singular

event of his incapacitation, by Irvine.

Beneath the cabin, accessed directly by a carpeted

staircase, was the saloon deck, an enclosed lounge area for

passengers and officers where they would take their meals. A

separate galley and pantry was provided, with a carpeted

dining area with a long table and bench-style, upholstered

seats. She was no passenger liner, but the Irex nevertheless

was built with some comfort in mind for the senior members of

her crew and the few passengers she would carry.

For the crew there was an altogether different class of

accommodation – room in the forecastle, or fo’c’sle, the first

deck crammed into the bow of the ship, was notoriously lacking

(no shipowner would countenance sacrificing profitable hold

space for mere crew habitation), and their mattresses were

tightly laid side by side on the planked floor. Only the

fortunate few in the cabin had an actual bunk – all the other

crew had to settle for a donkey’s breakfast, so-called because

it was a simple mattress stuffed with straw that could be

easily rolled up. The rough-and-tumble apprentices, a group of

boys who were being prepared for service as officers in the

merchant fleet of the future, usually ensured that at least

one of their number would find his mattress in the sea, used

for fuel, or fed to any livestock that might be carried. The

old salts still favoured that sailor’s staple, the hammock,

though there was ample room for everyone to have a pitch

without resorting to the swinging canvas sacks.

It was because of this dearth of personal space that the men

came aboard simply loaded – apart from the clothes they stood

up in, each had a small crate or sea bag with their sea

mattresses; a few extra clothes, especially socks; foul

weather oilskins and sea boots; a few tools of the trade, most

notably their indispensable knives, and marlinspikes, the

peculiar tool all sailors learned to use for splicing and de-

splicing the hempen lines of rope.

The novices also brought a few precious luxuries from home

or family – tins of meat, pocket-watches or mementoes –

precious items which would soon be lost to foolishness,

thievery, naiveté or the predations of the sea itself. The

first day that the heavily-laden, seventeen-year-old Will

Hutton had stepped aboard the training ship Conway he had

learned this lesson quickly, finding himself quickly divested

of such articles by the salty men whose job it was to make

good officers from the wide-eyed innocents who so

presumptively trespassed on their domain. His angry tears made

good sport for the raucous crew, who enjoyed impunity under

the eyes of the officers, only poor Hutton being yet unaware

of the hardness required to succeed in his chosen profession.

Yet here he was, for the ninth time now preparing to take to

the sea as master, but for the first time with a new ship and

new crew. It was a rare opportunity, and one in which he was

determined to succeed.

First Mate Andrew Irvine arrived aboard at this point – the

mate had been living on the ship for the past week, making

preparations for their voyage. He had retrieved the bills of

lading, signed by the shipping agent, and they now awaited the

captain’s signature to take legal possession of the thousands

of tons of iron in her holds. Hutton marvelled at the quaint

language of the Bill of Lading, unchanged since Elizabethan

days – even then, 300 years ago, men had set sail in their

tiny wooden galleons, braving the seas to bring wealth to

England. Hutton wondered what one of those Elizabethan sailing

masters would have made of the Irex; she may as well have been

constructed by God himself and planted in Greenock by his own

hand. Such was progress; but nothing man had made in any epoch

had any claim to master the sea – Hutton had to beseech the

grace of God as fervently and genuinely as any Tudor seadog.

[Cont.]

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