by Anna Reader
“I say,” Purdie whispered, with a frisson of excitement, “I’m absolutely certain that the light’s coming from the grotto! This is thrilling.”
“It would be highly irritating if it did turn out to be criminals,” Peter mused. “That Bakewell looked jolly good. Besides, an impromptu arrest doesn’t really chime with what I had planned for this evening.”
“Just as long as you weren’t intending to arrest me,” Purdie replied, only half in jest. “Peter, there’s a boat dragged up on the beach!” She reached for his arm in all the excitement, completely forgetting that she had intended to be the picture of aloof sophistication. He, meanwhile, was delighted by this development.
“Quiet, now,” he said in a low voice. “It’s bound to be nothing, but I don’t want to alarm whoever’s in there.”
Purdie nodded in understanding and stared out into the darkness, willing her eyes to detect a Cornish smuggler or two.
Peter moved the boat through the water as quietly as he could, his senses heightened by the excellent bubbly and his eyes trained on the dark mouth of the cave. He was genuinely convinced that it would be nothing more exciting than a couple of teenagers with a stolen bottle of rum and some woodbine cigarettes – but then he was first and foremost a lawman, and subsequently always prepared for the unexpected. A light moved slowly to and fro under the mackerel-sky, as though its bearer was pacing from the beach to the cave and back again. The light breeze picked up speed, and Purdie felt herself shiver in the darkness.
As they neared the shore the pair were able to make out the shape of a man for the first time; once again, Purdie reached for Peter’s arm. It looked as though the shadowy figure was holding a torch between his teeth, and that he was dragging something heavy from the small vessel moored on the beach into the mouth of the cave. He also seemed to be humming a shanty. To Purdie, this obviously screamed “smuggler”; even Peter couldn’t quite conjure a legitimate explanation for what the man must be doing.
Peter guided their boat towards the beach, behind a cluster of rocks about twenty yards west of the cave’s entrance. Stowing the oars as silently as he was able, he slipped into the water and dragged their small vessel towards the warm sand, and out of sight of the cave. Once the boat was safely tucked away, he turned to help Purdie out; only to find that she’d rolled up her trousers and slipped out after him.
“Stay behind me,” he mouthed, waiting for a nod of understanding before pressing himself against the shadowy rocks and edging towards the light. Purdie swiftly followed suit, and they made their way slowly across the narrow distance separating them from the mystery guest.
Once he thought they were close enough, Peter raised a hand in warning; they were hidden behind a small boulder, but if the figure swung around with the full beam of his torch they’d almost certainly be discovered. Purdie squeezed up next to him and tried to catch a glimpse of the shadowy shanty-hummer, before Peter pressed her backwards with one strong arm, not wanting to risk detection. Proximity had not, thus far, supported either of his theories; he couldn’t hear the tell-tale hyena-laugh of drunken youths, and there was definitely no sign of a dog.
Peter turned to Purdie and with a few mute gesticulations indicated that she should stay put. He, on the other hand, had decided to go in for a closer look. Sinking silently to his knees, he stretched out on the warm sand and started to commando-wriggle towards the water. Purdie looked on in anxious excitement as he shimmied across the beach like a coral snake, and was on the cusp of ignoring his silent instructions and following suit when the beam of a torch suddenly flashed out of the darkness of the cave: their nocturnal guest was on the move. Purdie motioned to Peter as vigorously as she could, but it was no use – he was entirely focused on the strange boat and couldn’t see her, or the light. With a surge of panic, she looked about her feet for a likely rock – if the figure returned to find Peter sprawled out on the sand by his boat, she might have to bop him – but to no avail. She was unlikely to inflict much damage with a whelk shell, which was all that appeared to be handy.
Just as she was wondering whether she ought to launch herself at the night-prowler in a last-ditch effort to save Peter’s life, Dashwood caught sight of the light and rolled briskly into the shadows – rather, to Purdie’s mind, in the manner of an exuberant child flinging himself down a hill. They were both, therefore, safely cloistered in the darkness when a rather portly shape finally emerged from the cave and marched towards his boat. Purdie held her breath; Peter pressed himself into the sand; and the stranger popped his torch in his mouth, bent over his small vessel, and hefted out a heavy looking box with a grunt.
As soon as the man’s hands were full Peter leapt to his feet, stuck his fingers into the pocket of his jacket as though he were brandishing a concealed pistol, and bellowed, “Police! Hold it right there!”
The torch sprung from the stranger’s lips; the battery was dislodged on impact; and everyone was suddenly plunged into darkness. Never one to miss an opportunity, Peter lunged forwards and clamped his arms around the stranger’s wrists.
“I say,” an exceedingly fruity voice declared, “I surrender unconditionally! I implore you not to drop my crate, however.”
Before Purdie knew what was going on Peter had released his captive, retrieved the torch, and illuminated the scene.
“Uncle Tim?!” Peter cried in astonishment.
“The one and only, m’boy,” the figure replied, before erupting into a hearty guffaw.
Purdie stepped out of the shadows and moved into the beam of light being cast by the torch.
“Who’s this?” Uncle Tim asked, his eyes twinkling as they suddenly found themselves trained on an exceptionally pretty young woman. “Peter, you dog.”
“This is Lady Emmeline Purdew,” Peter replied, as sternly as he was able. “And you have interrupted our supper. I thought you were meant to be in Paris for another two days!”
“My dear,” Uncle Tim said, bowing low to Purdie over one plus-foured leg. “How enchanting to meet you under the light of a Cornish moon. Are you, perchance, a sea-nymph, come to whisk me away to the depths for my sins?”
“That’s quite enough of that,” Peter declared. “For a start sea-nymphs don’t wear oversized Guernsey sweaters and plimsoles, in my experience.” Purdie couldn’t quite stifle a chuckle; whoever this Uncle Tim fellow was, she decided that she liked him enormously. “Now, spit it out – what on earth are you doing?”
“Alas, alack,” Uncle Tim cried, throwing a hand up to his forehead and assuming a most theatrical attitude. He had once had aspirations to tread the boards, but once it became apparent that his love of port was far greater than his love of the bard, he had abandoned a nascent – no, foetal – career and instead made a very pleasant life for himself in the country. “You have caught me in the act, dear boy. I’m afraid I can do nothing but appeal to your good nature, and excellent taste.”
“I’m still entirely in the dark,” Peter said; quite literally as it happened, since he’d managed to drop the torch during this gentle familial interrogation.
“What’s in the case?” Purdie asked, intrigued and delighted in equal measure.
“Ah,” Uncle Tim said, luxuriating in this moment of power. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio…”
“Copies of Hamlet?” Peter asked in confusion.
“No, Peter,” Uncle Tim replied, disgusted by his nephew’s persistent literalism. “If you must know, it’s wine.”
“Wine?” Purdie repeated, also confused. “But why on earth would you be carrying crates of wine into our grotto?”
“Well, sweet nymph,” Uncle Tim replied, drawing a pastel-coloured Sobranie cigarette from a silver case in his breast-pocket, “it’s my absolute favourite, you see, and vastly expensive. This ghastly government has raised import duty to such lofty heights that I simply cannot afford to ship the stuff in via more traditional routes. So, I pop across the Channel every few months and stock up.”
; “Uncle Tim,” Peter said, his eyebrows snapping together in displeasure, “that is obviously illegal.”
“Illegal?!” Uncle Tim gasped, clutching a hand to his chest in horror. “Quoi? It is entirely for personal consumption, dear boy – it’s not as though I’m selling the stuff on some kind of Black Market. Although come to mention it,” he continued, lost in his own thoughts for a moment, “I’m sure I could convince Bertie to take a bottle or two….”
“Timothy Fortesque,” Peter continued in a firm voice, “you have been caught red handed, I’m afraid. No, don’t look at me like that – you know full well you’re going to have to declare your loot to customs.”
“Now, Peter,” Uncle Tim said, sidling up to his nephew and trying to fling a friendly arm around his shoulder – a feat made considerably more difficult by the fact that Peter was a good five inches taller than his miscreant relation. “Let us at least discuss this over a bottle, like the gentlemen we are. This really is an excellent wine, and I should very much like to share it with you and the Exquisite Lady Emmeline.”
“We do still have the Bakewell Tart to eat,” Purdie observed, never one to turn down the possibility of making a new friend over a glass or two. “Perhaps we could just pop into the cave for a moment?”
“That’s the badger!” Uncle Tim cried, delighted to find a willing ally in his nephew’s bonny companion. “I’m sure I could even rustle up an empty crate or two for us to perch on – what luxury!”
Peter may have been able to resist his uncle’s entreaties, but he was strangely helpless when confronted by Purdie’s melting eyes. Again, he thought to himself, this was decidedly not what he’d had planned for this evening. “Oh, alright,” he conceded after a moment, “we’ll stay for a drink. But that doesn’t mean that I won’t make you confess your sins to the tax man,” he warned. “This is Nefarious Stuff, Uncle Tim.”
“Huzzah!” Uncle Tim cried, clapping his hands in delight and plucking a corkscrew from the pocket of his capacious jacket. “If I’d know I was going to be entertaining I’d have paid rather more attention to my toilette, and at least have brought a dish of olives.”
“I think you look absolutely splendid,” Purdie replied truthfully, taking the arm being proffered to her, and wandering into the cave.
“I’ll just bring this along then, shall I?” Peter called out after them, heaving the case of wine from the sand and tucking it under one well-developed arm. “You know this makes me an accessory to fraud,” he added loudly.
In reality Peter was aware that this was not actually a bad development. If anything, he thought with comical dismay, the revelation that he had a crooked uncle with an expensive taste in alcohol was only likely to improve his prospects with Lady Emmeline. Any other girl would likely have run for the hills when it came to skulking across the sand dunes in the middle of the night; Purdie, however, seemed to revel in the absurd. Peter really was in all sorts of trouble.
“Now, let me tell you all about the time that Peter tied his Great Aunt Maud to the willow in my garden, fixed a tennis racquet to her face, and pelted her with frogs….”
“No, Uncle Tim, let’s not share that particular anecdote,” Peter interjected with a grimace. “Why don’t you open one of those pieces of evidence, and I’ll fetch our lamp.”
“Pieces of…? Oh, very droll, my boy,” Uncle Tim replied, slapping his thigh in mirth. “Don’t hurry back, will you – it’s not often that I find myself entertaining such a delightful gal on my beach.”
“For the hundredth time, it is not actually “your” beach,” Peter remarked, as he stepped back out into the night air. “The fact that you swim here from time to time – and apparently use it to stash your booty – does not mean that you own it.”
“Pedantry, Peter, is the Enemy of Poetry.” Uncle Tim was rather pleased with this piece of sagacity, and he began to open a bottle with particular gusto.
“Tell me,” Peter could just hear Purdie saying, as he strode out of the cave back towards their boat, “do you know any other smugglers?”
Despite Peter’s protestations, the trio actually spent a decidedly jolly couple of hours with one another. One bottle inevitably led to two, and by the time they had finished the third they were all the best of friends. The Bakewell Tart went down very well indeed – Uncle Tim even being moved to declare that it was one of cook’s finest efforts, and being magnanimous enough to forgive the fact that his nephew had pilfered the larder – and the wine, as had been promised, was superlative.
By the time the cold had forced them to consider retiring, Uncle Tim had even managed to convince his nephew to turn a blind eye to this particular haul, on the understanding that he must never again avail himself of the benefits of tax evasion. This was a shrewd move on Peter’s part. As he had so accurately surmised, the appearance of a scallywag relation had bolstered his case with Purdie considerably; by deciding that his uncle should be permitted to get away with this solitary indiscretion, he had further demonstrated himself to be a merciful enforcer of His Majesty’s legal system.
“Are you coming back up to the house?” Peter asked his uncle, as they doused the fire and made ready to set off for into the night.
“Not a bit of it,” Uncle Tim replied, slipping a bottle into his jacket pocket. “Marmaduke’s Revenge is anchored half a mile out – I shall sleep there, and return to France in the morning.”
“Marmaduke’s Revenge?” Purdie asked - pleased, and rather relieved, to find that the wine had not robbed her of the ability to walk in a straight line.
“My schooner,” came the proud reply. “Named after my Pa. She’s a dear old thing – knows these waters like the back of her hand. Rudder. Hand.” Uncle Tim hiccupped.
“And how do you intend to find her?” Peter asked, steering his uncle away from the water’s edge. “You’re three sheets to the wind, and it’s pitch black out there.”
“Instinct, my boy,” Uncle Tim roared, flinging his arms about expansively. “An old sea-dog like me doesn’t need lights – I can navigate by the stars. For my purpose holds to sail beyond the sunset, and the baths of all the western stars, until I die.”
“That’s precisely what I’m worried about,” Peter observed. “You’d be lucky to make it to Gillan Creek in your current state, let alone beyond the sunset.”
“Peter,” Uncle Tim said, grandly swelling his chest. “I have been sailing these waters since you were in short trousers. I may have imbibed, but I am entirely confident I could make it to Denmark, let alone the paltry few yards to the Marmaduke’s Revenge. Now hand me my torch.”
“You’re holding it,” Peter replied.
“Of course I am. Now take this vision home. Was this the face that launch’d a thousand ships, and burnt the topless towers of Ilium?” he demanded of no one in particular, as he padded over to his boat and launched it out into the water.
“You’re a lucky devil to have an uncle like that,” Purdie said, resting one hand on Peter’s woollen jumper to steady herself as she patted her pockets in search of a cigarette. “What a jolly evening. Thank you, Peter.”
“My pleasure,” he replied, drawing a cigarette from his own pocket and handing it to her. “Purdie…” he said, after a moment’s pause. “I feel I ought to tell you something.”
What was this, she wondered, her heart suddenly going like the clappers. Was he about to declare his love? Ask if he could kiss her? Was a proposal on the cards? “Good God,” she suddenly said aloud, the wine temporarily disabling her internal monologue.
“What is it? Peter asked in surprise.
“Oh! Nothing,” Purdie said quickly. “Go on, please.”
Peter drew a lighter from his pocket and held the flame to Purdie’s cigarette before continuing. Unlikely to be a kiss, then, Purdie mused. Unless he has a reckless disregard for singed eyebrows.
“Purdie,” he began, suddenly serious as he turned to look at her. “I know that your father stashed Sir Reginald Thackeray in Silly-Mid-Off’s
stable.”
“What in the world are you talking about?” Purdie demanded, managing to mask the sudden rush of panic with a voice which sounded genuinely astonished.
Peter put his hands on her shoulders and looked down into her eyes. “I’m not joking, Emmeline. When I get back to town tomorrow, I’m going to have to report it.”
Purdie said nothing. She was seething, dismayed, crushed; she’d had such a wonderful evening, and all the while Peter had been intending to shop her father. Never mind kisses, she thought to herself bitterly, if Peter squealed on her father, she couldn’t possibly see him again socially. Not to mention the fact that he may decide to arrest her too, which would really put the kibosh on their fledgling romance.
“Have you shared this ludicrous theory with anyone else?” she asked, managing to summon an amused smile.
“I wanted to tell you first,” he replied gently, not yet letting go of her shoulders. “Purdie, I…”
“Well, it’s all utter flim-flam, of course,” she said airily, as they reached the cottage. “And an awful waste of police time to be flinging accusations about willy-nilly. Anyway,” she said, apparently dismissing the unpleasant topic with a shake of her head, but all the while making swift internal calculations, “won’t you come in for a night-cap? I know my parents will be furious with me if I don’t let them say hello.”
“I don’t think I should,” Peter replied in surprise. “After what I’ve told you, I’m not sure I’d be wholly comfortable making polite conversation with your father.”
“Don’t be so silly,” Purdie replied, patting him on the arm and dragging him towards the door. “He’d find it highly diverting, though of course I won’t embarrass you by mentioning it tonight. Come along.”
In the end, Peter really had no choice. The door was flung open by Algie, and he found himself being propelled into the drawing room.
FIFTEEN
