Darby departed the machine at its beachward end, a brief flash of sunlight dazzling Helen’s eyes before the door closed again. She smiled; poor Darby couldn’t get out fast enough. She turned and stood in the dim, cool box, her breath quickening a little in anticipation. Her mother and father had drowned at sea, either by accident or, if Pike was right, by ill deed. The prospect of stepping into such an expanse of water by choice seemed entirely mad.
A thump against the wall and a loud ‘Ahoy’ from Martha heralded the first lurch forward. Helen pressed a hand on either wall, steadying herself as the machine rocked its way across the shingle. The weights sewn into the hem of her gown thudded against her ankle bones in a stinging rhythm that matched the slow, grinding progress.
‘Steady,’ she heard Martha call, and then came the slap of the surf against the wooden walls. Cold water oozed through the planks beneath her feet.
‘Orright!’ Martha yelled. The machine stopped moving. The clank and jingle of the harness sounded again; the pony being walked around to the beachward side. Another thump, this time on the seaward door, and then Helen heard Martha call, ‘When you are ready, my lady.’
Helen stepped across to the door and opened it, a spray of cold water wetting her face. She blinked in the bright sunlight. Below, Martha Gunn stood in the glinting surf, an unmoving anchor against the pound of the waves, her navy gown swirling around her sturdy body. They were a good twenty yards or so from the next bathing machine, where two young ladies clung to the steps, shrieking as their dippers tried to prise them from their safe hold. Beyond them, at least ten other machines were lined up, dippers and clients bobbing in the surf.
Martha beckoned to Helen. ‘Just come on down the steps, my lady. I’ll be here to keep you up.’
Helen stared down at the lapping water. Dear Lord, she could not see the bottom. At the next machine, the screaming ladies still clung to the step. She could understand their terror, but she would not allow her own fear to humiliate her in such a manner. Gathering her resolve, she stepped down onto the wet wood. Water enveloped her feet and she drew in a startled breath. So cold! On the next step, the icy water rose up her legs and wrapped the weighted hem around her shins.
‘Right you are,’ Martha said.
Helen felt the dipper’s strong hands take her forearms. She yelped as her body plunged up to her neck into the freezing water. The gown billowed and then collapsed, the wet cloth dragging her down. For an instant, Helen felt dizzying panic as a wave washed over her head and filled her nose with salty water that stung the back of her throat, and then Martha’s hold changed. One large hand gathered flannel at her back, while an arm circled her waist. Helen groped for the dipper and found a meaty shoulder. A few panicked kicks and her feet were free from the tangle of her hem. She felt the sandy bottom beneath her soles, thank God, and dug her toes in, bracing against the buffeting waves.
‘Do you wish to go right under?’ Martha’s voice said near her ear.
Helen thought she had already done so. ‘No!’ she gasped.
‘We’ll stay as we is then.’
With the bulwark of Martha at her side and her feet dug into the sand, Helen took a few deep breaths and looked back at the beach. At least thirty yards of rolling, foaming, depthless water away. Quelling a rise of panic, she forced her mind to the business at hand.
‘Mrs Gunn,’ she said, raising her voice above the screech of gulls and women, and the crash of waves, ‘Lord Carlston says you know everything there is to know about Brighton and its inhabitants.’
‘That be right,’ Martha said. ‘And all the whereabouts too, from Shoreham to Eastbourne. It’s why his lordship recruited me. Hold on now, here’s a big one.’
A harder wave hit, sending them staggering back a step. Martha laughed, the sheer joy of it bringing a smile to Helen’s face. It seemed even after sixty-odd years of dipping, Martha still revelled in the sea and its caprices.
‘We are looking for a man by the name of Lowry. Or for any of his people,’ Helen said, regaining her footing. The water no longer felt bone-chillingly cold and, as long as she could touch the sand with her toes, it was not too frightening. ‘He grew up in the Brighton workhouse.’
‘Lowry?’ Martha’s wet, wrinkled face furrowed into more lines as she pondered the name. ‘Nobody of that name in Brighton.’
Helen licked her lips, the tang of sea-salt seasoning her disappointment. Had Lowry lied? Perhaps she had remembered amiss and it was not the Brighton workhouse.
She tried another tack. ‘He was Samuel Benchley’s Terrene. You know what a Terrene is, don’t you?’
‘I do. His lordship told me all about hisself and the Deceivers. And yourself too.’ She leaned closer, eyes solemn. ‘You and he be marvels to keep us protected from them creatures. What’s it like to have such power, my lady? I’ve always wanted to ask his lordship, but it’s not the kind of question you ask him, is it?’
Helen blinked. No one had ever asked her what it felt like to be a Reclaimer. ‘Well, it is … I mean, at times it is wonderful … and other times it is not.’
Martha nodded. ‘Good and bad, like most gifts from the Almighty, and harder for you, I imagine, being a lass. It be like this job — only for them that’s got the pluck. There’s none braver than his lordship, but I seen the look that comes into his eye. Right haunted it is. You be careful not to get that look, my lady.’
Haunted. Helen silently agreed with the old dipper’s assessment of his lordship’s eyes. Ever since he had collapsed there was a shadow upon his every look and gesture; perhaps the knowledge that he could no longer count upon his own control.
‘Watch out now!’ Martha called. She swung in front of Helen, taking the brunt of a sly wave against her broad shoulder, then said, ‘This man you want is Samuel Benchley’s Terrene, eh?’ Raising a dripping arm, she tapped her forehead as if urging a slow clock to turn. ‘Ah, I know who you mean. He came back here a year ago with Benchley. But his name weren’t Lowry growing up. It was MacEvoy. Bartholomew MacEvoy.’
‘Bartholomew, yes, that is his Christian name.’ Helen looked up at the sky, sending a quick, fervent prayer of thanks. ‘Does he have any family in Brighton or somewhere nearby?’
‘A sister, Katherine. Married a man by the name of Holt, right here in Brighton.’ Martha regarded Helen with a doubtful brow. ‘These ain’t good folk, my lady.’
‘Where does she live?’ Helen asked.
Martha rubbed her chin. ‘Well, now, like I said, Kate Holt ain’t a respectable woman. What I got to say ain’t for gentle ears. Maybe it’d be best if I tell his lordship.’
‘No,’ Helen said quickly. ‘Lord Carlston wants me to find Lowry’s relatives. You must think of me as a Reclaimer, Mrs Gunn, not a lady.’
The old dipper nodded. ‘It’s like I tell my Stephen: when I’m in me water dress, I’m more man than woman. Got to be if I’m to keep you ladies safe. Well now, about Kate Holt. If you be forgiving my bluntness, she used to trade on her own bottom, and now she and her man run a bawdy-house down in the Lanes. Have you an idea of what that is, my lady?’