Smuggler's Moon

by Bruce Alexander

  Whilst the tale was told me, there were a few cries of pain from within the room, but when Mr. Perkins emerged, he said that Constable Trotter had done well.

  ‘“Twasn’t taking the bullet out that hurt him so,” said he, ”but setting his broken arm—that’s what set him going. The gin didn’t help much there.”

  Mr. Parker had abundant instructions for the care of Constable Trotter. The question was, who would stay with the patient to carry out the instructions? When the surgeon put the matter to the innkeeper, the latter insisted that, much as he would like to nurse the constable back to robust health, he must be free to run the taproom below.

  “There is a possibility, however,” said he after giving some thought to the problem. ”Perhaps the dull-witted girl who sweeps and mops the place in the mornings might be persuaded to sit with him through the rest of the day.”

  “But you call her ‘dull-witted.’ Would she know enough wit to change the bandage each day and to administer a chemist’s potion at regular intervals?”

  The innkeeper scratched his head. ”Probably not.”

  “Sir,” said I to the surgeon, ”I know of such a girl. She is able and dependable.” I had Clarissa in mind, of course.

  “Yes, but she is not here now. How am I to instruct her? Can she read?”

  “She would spend all her time with books, if given the chance.”

  “Ah, well then, innkeeper, if you will provide pen, ink, and paper, I will write out what must be done.”

  Mr. Perkins stepped forward. ”And I’ll remain here with Trotter until she comes,” said he. ”The lad must be off to make a report of all this to the magistrate.”

  “Well enough then, do it as you like. All that matters is that he be given proper attention. He’ll be going into fever by the end of the day.”

  Mr. Perkins gave me a wink and a nod, which I took to mean that I might leave now. I answered with a nod of my own.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” said I to Mr. Parker, ”I’ll be on my way.”

  With that and a bobbing bow, I left the room. It so happened, though, that the cowardly innkeeper was below, assembling the writing materials the surgeon had called for. He raised a hand to me, beckoning me to him ere I walked out the door. I went to him. Apparently he wished to tell me something, but knew not quite how to do it. He made a false start or two.

  “Perhaps you could … I would like to explain … that is to say…” Then did he stop altogether and collect himself before proceeding. ”I would ask, lad, that you not judge me too harshly. What I told you is the truth, no less than if I’d given it under oath. Mind, I’m none too proud of my behavior, as I’ve described it to you. Nevertheless, I’d have you know that I was afeared for my very life. I vow that I’ve never been so close to death before. You do understand, don’t you?”

  I knew not what to say. If he were asking for my approval, I would certainly withhold it. If he were asking for absolution—forgiveness—as those in the Romish faith are said to ask it of their priests, then I could not grant it, for such power had not been given me. Yet the innkeeper was asking for much less, was he not? He wanted only my understanding, and that much I could certainly offer him.

  “Yes,” said I, ”I do understand.”

  Then did he look me in the eye for the first time since he had beckoned me over. And quite at a loss for something more to say, he simply nodded.

  Outside, I saw that there was light in the east and realized I had labored in a good cause the whole night through.

  I wondered at the sense of exhilaration which I felt. Whence came it? It had been near twenty-four hours since last I slept—or perhaps even longer. Why was I not tired, exhausted by all I had seen and done? How long could I thus continue as fresh as I might feel had I just rolled out of bed? Though day was breaking, there was yet no one to be seen upon the street. So, since there was neither man nor woman to be seen upon High Street, I gave full rein to these exuberant feelings and began running down the street, my footsteps clattering down upon the cobblestones, my reflection appearing and disappearing in the windows of the finest shops in Deal. Then did I turn down King and up Middle Street. And of a sudden came the feeling that something was terribly wrong. Nay, it was more than a feeling, but rather an awful, frightening certitude. I slowed to a fast walk that I might hear better. And what was there to hear? Naught in that first hour of daylight but a woman’s voice, moaning and softly wailing. I went directly to Number 18, for there was not the slightest doubt but that these sad sounds did come from there. What I saw would be enough to rend any stout heart in two.

  The door to the house was wide open, yet the space was filled by the body of Albert Sarton—plainly he was dead. Kneeling above and hugging his inert form to her as best she could was Molly Sarton; she sighed and sobbed in a manner so resigned that it seemed she might never stop. Sir John bent over her, his hands upon her shoulders. Supporting her? Certainly. Attempting to draw her away? Perhaps. I approached them slowly and uncertainly, oddly unwilling to let them know of my presence. It came to me then that, quite unexpectedly, I felt quite tired—truly exhausted.

  SEVEN

  In which I see

  Sir John in full fury

  for the first time

  For the most part, during the years I had known him, Sir John Fielding had been a man of placid disposition. Oh, he had bad days, of course, as any man will. He could grow cross or tetchy, or occasionally take offense when none was intended. Nevertheless, I insist that for a man of his position and time he was remarkably even-tempered.

  The only true exception I must make to this is that period in Deal, of which I now shall write. From the time of Mr. Sarton’s murder until our departure from the town, Sir John seemed to be in a state of extreme anger. Even in his relations with Molly Sarton, the widow, which were of the most kind and cordial nature, there seemed some part of him beneath the surface which seethed with rage. It was as if he had on his mind one matter and one alone. He would break long silences with remarks such as this: ”An attack upon an officer of the court, even one so lowly as an ordinary magistrate, is an attack upon the law itself, which is the very structure which supports our society.” (I recall that being said in the course of the long coach ride from Gravesend, of which you will hear anon.) And he spent more than one sleepless night ruminating at length and aloud upon the perfidy of the ordinary people of Deal, that they would happily tolerate the smuggling trade and its attendant crimes so long as they shared materially in its benefits. Or, another favorite topic during these nocturnal rants: the evil of our immoral age, in which human life was given so little respect and taken with so little regard. ”Was it always so?” he would say. Then would he answer, ”Yes, alas, it was always so.”

  He would boil over. He would fulminate. And in between such eruptions and explosions, he brooded furiously. His only remedy was work. It was by doing what had to be done—and more—that he managed to maintain some degree of equanimity. And only when, through cunning and clever planning, his work succeeded did he become, in some sense, his old self.

  Putting aside the matter of comforting the widow, who was so utterly distraught that I thought for a moment she might never regain her composure, there was much of a practical nature which should be attended to by me. Sir John managed to persuade her to come away from the corpus so that I might move it and close the door.

  “Go to the kitchen,” said he to her. ”I’ll join you there as soon as I am able. Please, Mrs. Sarton, it is the only way under the circumstances. You must see that, do you not?”

  Reluctantly she rose and—in a voice husky with tears— managed an affirmative reply of some sort. Then, even more reluctantly, she started down the long hall. Unable to turn her back upon the dead body of her husband, she kept turning round as she went, as if to convince herself that what she had seen were really so—and yet hoping it were not.

  Soon she was out of earshot. Sir John turned to me then, his face contorted by extreme emotion. Feel
ing for my hand, he found it, and squeezed it with such strength I near cried out in surprise.

  “Now, Jeremy, you must describe to me the condition of the body whilst still it lies as it fell.”

  That I did, beginning with its position, which was much further out upon the doorstep than I would have expected, face down, bent at the knees, with arms outstretched. Had he meant to attack his killer?

  “His hands are empty?” asked Sir John. ”He has no weapon?”

  “No,” said I, ”no weapon of any sort.”

  “Look about the body to be sure.”

  I did as he told me. ”No, nothing.”

  “How is he dressed? For bed?”

  “Oh, no, he’s dressed as he was when last I saw him— when we brought by our prisoners and informed him of the success of our operation.” Only then did I remember what I had come to tell. ”But Sir John, I came to inform you of the terrible—”

  “Later,” he snapped. ”I must concentrate upon this poor fellow now. What would you say? Is he dressed for the street?”

  Somewhat chastened by his reproving tone, I lowered my voice. ”No, sir. He is in waistcoat and shirtsleeves.”

  “I take it there is a candle burning in the small room to our right?”

  “There is, yes.”

  “You have been in that room a number of times,” said he to me. ”Tell me, is it possible to see who is at the door from inside it?”

  “No, it would probably not be possible—from the window behind the desk—unless the visitor wished to be seen.”

  “Ha!” He let forth a single ironic cackle. ”In this case, Jeremy, we may rest assured that his visitor wished it so.”

  That confused me a bit. ”But why should he wish to be seen?”

  “Never mind that. Look now at his wound. Turn him over, if need be.”

  The exit wound was so large that one might claim, without too much exaggeration, that Mr. Sarton had had the back of his head blown off. What more could the entry wound tell us? Nevertheless, I turned the body over—and got quite a surprise. I must have exclaimed involuntarily at what I had seen.

  “What is it?” demanded Sir John.

  “Well,” said I, ”the ball entered approximately where one would expect, right between, and just above, the eyes. But…”

  “Yes? Go on.”

  “I’ve never seen a wound so sooted with gunpowder. His whole face has been blackened.”

  “There! You see?”

  “No, quite frankly, sir, I don’t.”

  “Well, it should be evident. I can give you the last minute or so of Albert Sarton’s life from what you’ve told me. He was sitting at the desk in the room, working by candlelight. I daresay that if you were to look at the desk you would find a book open, or some sentence left unfinished, to prove that he had been interrupted. What then? He hears a tapping upon the window behind him. Would he then have opened the drapes to see who it was at the window? Not likely, from what we have earlier seen of him and his elaborate identification of all callers who come to the door. No, something was said by his visitor through the window glass—something that gave him reassurance that it would be all right to open the drapes. When he did, he was reassured further by the sight of his visitor that it would be safe to open his door to him, which was evidently what had been requested. He then went to the door and opened it without the usual request for identification. There was no need of it. After all, he knew who was out there, didn’t he? As soon as the door came open, the pistol was put close to his head, the trigger was pulled, and along with the ball which passed through his brain, an inordinate amount of black powder was discharged upon his face. Thus is it proven that Mr. Sarton not only knew his visitor, he also trusted him sufficiently to throw his door open to him without further ado. And this restricts the number of possible suspects considerably.”

  Put thus, it did seem evident, truly enough. There was yet a detail or two that troubled me. I decided to challenge Sir John on at least one of them.

  “Sir,” said I, ”would not the opening of the drapes have provided the visitor with all the opportunity he would need? Could he not have shot through the glass?”

  Taking a moment to consider the point, he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ”Yes, why didn’t he?” said he. ”It could be simply that Mr. Sarton did not present as sure a target this side the window. For after all, his first impulse upon catching sight of a pistol would be to let fall the drapes and duck back away from the window.”

  “I can see that,” said I. ”The visitor felt he had to have a sure shot, for recognition during an unsuccessful attempt at murder would have been simply disastrous.”

  “Yes, well … but what about this? Let us suppose that there was not one visitor but two. The first we have discussed, one who would instill such confidence in Mr. Sarton that he would throw open the door without hesitation, and the second to do the shooting. Why a second? Perhaps because he is used to such ugly work—a practiced killer. And perhaps because the visitor, the man whom Mr. Sarton recognized, was himself too fastidious to commit such an act.”

  When Sir John had completed his study of the corpus and its surroundings, I informed him of the disastrous events that had taken place at the inn. I feared my news might crush him altogether, yet he took it quite stoically, as if so much had already gone so terribly wrong, that further calamities were of no real consequence and almost to be expected. Ultimately, the story of the unexpected failure of our operation against the smugglers, and the loss of the cargo, as well as the constable’s death, did naught but provide more fuel for his anger.

  I concluded my report by confessing that I had more or less volunteered Clarissa for duty as nurse to Constable Trotter. He took it well and seemed to approve this new role for her.

  “Just so long as it does not involve her for too great a time. Another must be found to help. Clarissa will be needed to act as companion to Mrs. Sarton, for the two get on well. She can help the poor woman through this crisis.”

  “She will stay here, then?” I asked.

  “We shall all stay here. This will be our new headquarters, if Mrs. Sarton will have us. I shall be particularly glad to have Clarissa out of that environment. Imagine locking a girl of her age in her room! On whose orders, I should like to know! And to what purpose?”

  “What then with our baggage, Sir John?”

  “Collect it all,” said he. ”Perhaps it might be best if you were to find that coachman, Mick … Mick Crawly is his name, I believe. He’ll take you up there. You can collect the baggage. Crawly will load it on the coach, then take you and Clarissa back to town.”

  “Very good, sir, I’ll attend to that immediately.”

  “No, I rather think that first we had better move Mr. Sarton’s body as best we can. Then you must call at the surgeon’s and ask him to come by. I have questions about the wound in Mr. Sarton’s head and the condition of the body that only he can answer. And lastly, you must visit the mortician and ask him to come at the end of the day to collect Mr. Sarton’s body and prepare it for burial.” Having said all that, he sighed, as if unwilling to continue. But, having sighed, he filled his lungs again, straightened his shoulders and suggested that we move the corpus. ”I may be blind,” said he, ”but if you take the lead, I should be able to follow.”

  “No, you’ll do no such thing.” It was the unexpected voice of Molly Sarton, loudly preceding her as she came down the hall from the kitchen, her arms filled with rags and a pillow. She was much changed from the weeping widow I had seen kneeling over her husband. Clearly, she had got herself under control and was now determined to play her part in these sad, postmortem events. ”He was my husband, after all,” said she, ”and the least I can do for him is see that he’s given a proper burial. So you take him under the arms, Jeremy, and I’ll take his feet, and we’ll bring him into the big room here, and lay him onto the sofa.”

  She nudged Sir John aside and tossed the pillow and rags down upon the middle of her husband’
s body.

  “Take a cloth or two and wrap it round his head,” said she, ”for if you don’t, you’ll have blood and brains all over that fine green coat of yours. I’d do it for you, but … but I can’t. In truth, I just can’t.”

  I did as she directed, wrapping his head tight in the rags, using a third and then a fourth, until there were no spots of blood leaking through the layers of cloth. I could not but notice that all the time that I was thus occupied, she kept her gaze averted.

  When the task was done, she asked if I were ready. I nodded, and she lifted his feet by the heels. I heaved him up by the armpits and wondered at how heavy he seemed for such a small man. Then did I recall the phrase ”dead weight,” and understood its origin and true meaning. We had not far to carry him, and indeed could not have carried him much farther. As I passed Sir John, he put his hand lightly upon my shoulder and in this way followed close behind me into the room, which they had ever used as a courtroom. Mrs. Sarton placed his feet upon the sofa, and I followed, situating his body in such a way that it rested easily upon the length of the piece.

  “You had best tuck the pillow beneath his head,” said she to me, ”for the wound will likely leak further.”

  Again I did as she told me, without question or comment. Sir John, who like me had said nothing since her sudden appearance, at last cleared his throat and made to speak.

  “Your resolution is admirable, madame,” said he, ”but would it not be better if you were to take a rest? You have had a terrible shock. You ought not strain yourself overmuch in such a situation.”

  “I thank you for your advice, Sir John, and though I know it be well meant, I’ll not take it.”

  She looked down at her husband’s body there upon the sofa. With his head wrapped as it was, his face was barely visible, and what could be seen of it was so blackened by the pistol shot that the features were hardly discernible.

  “Dear God, I did love that man,” she continued, ”but there is naught I can do to return him to life, and so I must get on with my own. I’ll bury him well, and in my heart I’ll mourn him.” At this point I remember well that she sighed and shook her head before concluding: ”But I can’t bring him back.”