Morgan’s Run (15 page)

I know it all, said Richard to himself. The rum goes to some place nearer Bath, where Ceely and the stranger either sell it or trans-ship it to Salisbury or Exeter, and a fat, excise-free profit is divided by four. I would be willing to bet, however, that it is Ceely Trevillian gets the biggest share.

What was he actually going to do? After turning it over in his mind all the way home, Richard decided that the time had come to tell his father.

Dick and Mag were up and about, William Henry still slumbering when Richard walked into the Cooper’s Arms. His parents cast each other a conspiratorial glance, having noticed on their way downstairs that Richard’s bed was empty. How to let a recent widower know that they did understand an occasional absence?

“Mum, go away,” said Richard without ceremony. “I have to speak to Father in private.”

Looking worldly, Dick prepared to listen to a tale of basic urges and some pretty female face seen in St. James’s yesterday morning, only to hear a tale of staggering villainy.

“What should I do, Father?”

A shrug, a wry look. “There is only one thing a decent man can do. Go at once—and in secret!—to the Collector of Excise at Excise House. His name is Benjamin Fisher.”

“Father! Your business—your friendship with Tom Cave—it would ruin everything for you!”

“Nonsense,” said Dick strongly. “There are other makers of good rum in Bristol, and I know ’em all. Stand on best terms with ’em too. Tom Cave is more a very old acquaintance than a friend, Richard. Ye’ve not seen him sup at my table, nor do I sup at his. Besides,” he grinned, “I always knew he was a sly boots. It is in his eyes, ain’t you noticed? Never gives ye a good frank stare.”

“Yes,” said Richard soberly, “I have noticed. Still, I feel sorrier for him than I do for Thorne. As for Ceely”—he made a gesture as if to push something horrible away—“the man is a turd. What an actor! The apparent nincompoop is a very clever man.”

“No work for you today,” said Dick, pushing Richard stairward. “Go and put on your best Sunday clothes, my new hat, and off to Excise House—and do not breathe a word to anyone, hear? There is no need to look so down in the mouth, either. If those beauties have tapped off half as much rum as ye think they have, then ye’ll get a hefty reward for your pains. Enough to see William Henry is educated to your heart’s content.”

It was that thought drove Richard, clad in his dark-hued Sunday clothes, Dick’s best hat on his head, to walk toward Queen Square. Excise House occupied the end of a block between the square and Princes Street (upon which desirable avenue Mr. Thomas Cave’s house was situated), and Richard soon discovered that the Excise Men of Excise House were slugs who used their desks to sleep off their hangovers, especially on a Monday. They were unorganized, uninterested, and preferred to be unoccupied. Thus it took Richard several hours to ascend the hierarchical ladder. Looking at each of the bored faces, Richard declined to say anything more than that he had discovered an excise fraud, and wanted to see the Collector himself. As distinct from the Commander, higher up still.

An interview he finally achieved at three o’clock in the afternoon, dinnerless and with his famous patience distinctly frayed.

“Ye have five minutes, Mr. Morgan,” said Mr. Benjamin Fisher from behind his desk.

No need to wonder if the Collector of Excise had ever been in the field himself; he peered at Richard through the small round lenses of a pair of spectacles which he did not need to peruse the neatly stacked documents on his desk. Short-sighted. His home had always been a desk. Which meant that he would not understand in the way any of his field officers would. On the other hand, Richard’s mind went on, that might mean that he does not accept bribes. For surely the men in the field do, else I would not be here.

Richard told his story in a few succinct words.

“How much rum d’ye estimate these persons draw off in a week?” Mr. Benjamin Fisher asked when Richard ended.

“If they pick up their hogsheads every three weeks, sir, about eight hundred gallons per week.”

That put a different complexion on it! Mr. Fisher straightened, put his quill down and pushed the piece of paper on which he had been taking notes to one side. On went the spectacles again; his eyes, two pale blue marbles swimming beneath layers of glass, goggled.

“Mr. Morgan, this is a huge fraud! Could ye be mistaken in your calculations?”

“Aye, sir, of course I could. But if they change the hogsheads every three weeks, then ’tis eight hundred gallons weekly. Yesterday was the first of June, and I can testify that the casks the three men brought into the distillery were completely empty, for one man could kick one cask around like a ball. Whereas the casks they took out were so full that it took two of them to roll one up an easy ramp. The Sunday I imagine they will use next is the twenty-second of June. If your men are hiding nearby from midnight on, ye’ll apprehend all three of them in the very act,” Richard said, betting that he was right.

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan. I suggest that ye return to work and conduct yourself as usually until further notified by this office. On behalf of His Majesty, I must convey the Excise Office’s sincere thanks for your diligence.”

Richard was going to the door when the Collector of Excise spoke again. “If the fraud is as large as you say, Mr. Morgan, there will be an eight-hundred-pound reward, five hundred pounds of which will go to you. After testifying at their trial, of course.”

He could not resist asking. “Who gets the other three hundred?”

“The men who arrest the culprits, Mr. Morgan.”

And that was that. Richard went home.

“You were right, Father,” he said to Dick. “If all turns out as I expect it will, then I will receive five-eighths of an eight-hundred-pound reward.”

Dick looked skeptical. “Three hundred pounds seem excessive for a dozen Excise Men to share for nothing more than the act of arrest.”

Which made Richard laugh. “Father! I had not thought ye so green! I imagine that the Excise Men who do the actual arresting will share fifty pounds of it. The other two hundred and fifty will undoubtedly find their way into Mr. Benjamin Fisher’s pockets.”

On Sunday
the 22nd of June a dozen Excise Men chopped down the back door of the Cave distillery, charged into the deserted premises with staves at the ready, and there located four dozen full 50-gallon hogsheads of illicit rum connected to the stills by illicit pipes.

When Mr. Thomas Cave rode up on his horse at two on Monday morning and Mr. William Thorne and Mr. John Trevillian Ceely Trevillian drove up in their geehoe shortly thereafter, the gaping tatters of the door and the Excise seals on everything inside told an unmistakable tale.

“We were rumbled,” said Mr. Thorne, showing his teeth.

Cave shivered in terror. “Ceely, what do we do?”

“As the rum is gone, I suggest we go home,” said Ceely coolly.

“Why are they not here to arrest us?” Cave asked.

“Because they wanted no trouble, Tom. The amount of rum will have told them that there are some ruthless characters involved—it is a hanging offense. An Excise Man is not paid enough to risk a pistol ball in his guts.”

“Our sources should have informed us ahead of time!”

“That they should,” said Ceely grimly, “which leads me to think that this came from the very top and that foreign men were used.”

“Richard Morgan!” snarled Thorne, pounding one fist into the palm of his other hand. “The fucken bugger rumbled us!”

“Richard Morgan?” Trevillian frowned. “You mean that damned goodlooking fellow fixes the leaks?”