Smuggler's Moon

by Bruce Alexander

  “True enough,” said Sir John, ”but do you not suppose that—”

  “In this alone I’ll have the last word. ‘Tis I will summon the surgeon and notify the mortician. These be matters which have to do with putting Berty safe underground. Let Jeremy go now and collect your baggage and return with Clarissa, as well. I’ll be happy to have you all here—and Clarissa not least.”

  In this way it came about that I rode in the place beside Mick Crawly on my way out to Great Mongeham and the manor house of Sir Simon Grenville. I liked the man and his ready manner well enough, but his curiosity threatened to become an impediment to good relations between us. It seemed that he had learned something of the hectic and deadly events of the night before, and he wished to learn more. I guessed that the innkeeper was the source of his information. That meant that in little more than an hour, news of our victory-turned-defeat had spread across half the town. This in itself was not surprising when one considered the extent to which Deal depended upon smuggling as its leading local industry. No doubt it would take no more than another hour for the whole of the sad story to be spread cross the rest of the town. Yet if he were to learn more, it would not be from me.

  We bounced along at a good rate of speed out the Dover Road and then up the hill. The horses were fresh and well fed and full of life, so that Mick Crawly had all he could do to hold them down to a trot. Nevertheless, that did not stop him from hinting broadly, giving a wink or two, and putting forward a few indirect queries. He would shoot me a glance, smile, then come forth with a question so innocently framed that one could in no wise object to it.

  As an instance, he asked, ”Heard you fellas had a bit of trouble last night. Anyone hurt?”

  Then I, thinking to give him as little information as possible without actually lying, said: ”There were casualties on both sides.”

  “Ah, no doubt there were,” said he. He could not fault me for my ready response, and that did, in a sense, end discussion.

  Yet there were two or three more attempts by him to draw information from me—or so it seemed to me. The most obvious was surely his rather direct inquiry: ”You people going to stay around here much longer?” (This, by the bye, was delivered with a wink.)

  My reply: ”A bit longer, I should think.”

  That ended it between us, for by the time it was asked, and my answer given, we were trailing up the driveway to the manor house, just passing the point where Will Fowler had been forced to pull his team to a swift stop, when a man bolted from the trees to our left, waving his arms and frightening the horses.

  But then we were past it, pulling up to the entrance to the great house, looking to the door from which Mr. Fowler himself emerged to welcome us. I instructed Mr. Crawly to wait where we were. There would be baggage to bring down to him, and a passenger to take back to town—as well as myself, of course. He nodded his understanding, and I climbed down from my perch, happy to receive Mr. Fowler’s friendly greeting. Though there was no speech of welcome, as he had given when first we arrived, he did seem truly glad to see me. His smile did fade, however, when I asked after Clarissa.

  “How is she?” I asked. ”I’m moving her into town. We’ll be located a bit more conveniently there for our further inquiries.”

  “Ah yes, of course,” said Mr. Fowler, ”and perhaps it’s just as well. Clarissa, poor girl, has had a bad night of it, I fear.”

  “Oh? What sort of bad night?”

  “Truth to tell, it was all bad dreams. She believes she saw the ghost—our ghost, you know—and then it seems she took off on a sleepwalking adventure.”

  “Truly so?” I asked. ”That doesn’t sound like her at all.”

  I found Clarissa ready to pack. She had no wish to remain another night in the manor house, but would say nothing of what she had endured until we were underway.

  When I told her of all that had happened—the battle on the beach, the deadlier battle at the inn, and the murder of Mr. Sarton—she was quite overcome by the drama of it all. Most of all, she declared, her heart quite ached for Molly Sarton.

  “I’ll be happy to do what I can for Constable Trotter,” said she, ”and I’m ever so flattered that you thought I should be the one to minister to him, but my proper place is with dear Molly. She needs me, I know.”

  Then did Mr. Fowler appear at Clarissa’s door and volunteer to bring her portmanteau down to the hackney coach. As he hauled it away, we two crossed the hall and hurriedly packed Sir John’s portmanteau and my valise. It seemed but a minute or two before he had returned and taken them down as well. We followed him and watched Mick Crawly securing the baggage at the top of the coach. Mr. Fowler nodded his approval as the coachman completed the job.

  “All ready?” I called up to Crawly.

  “Whenever you are,” said he.

  “Then let us be off.” We hopped inside, waved goodbye to Will Fowler, and were thumped back in our seats as the team sprang forward at Mick Crawly’s urging. Then did Clarissa turn to me with a frown and a shake of her head. What could they mean?

  “I feel sorry for him,” said she, as if that would explain all.

  “Feel sorry for whom?” said I.

  “For Mr. Fowler. I don’t believe that he’s like the rest of them.”

  “What rest of them? What do you mean?”

  “Why, the rest of the servants,” said she rather airily. ”It could not have escaped even your notice that things are not near as they should be hereabouts.”

  “Of course not. A man was murdered just a few nights ago.”

  ”Well, that’s … that’s certainly a sure sign that something’s wrong. But apart from that—perhaps I should say, along with that—there are so many things that are not as they should be—well, you take last night, for example.”

  “All right, indeed, what about last night?”

  Yet she evaded me still: ”What did Mr. Fowler say about it?”

  “He said that you’d had bad dreams, that you’d seen the house ghost, and gone sleepwalking.”

  “He must have been told to say that.”

  “Not true?”

  “Oh, a little of it, I suppose. For instance, I did say that the entire experience was like a bad dream. I didn’t say I’d had a bad dream.”

  “And the ghost?”

  “That? Well, that was the silliest of all. He wouldn’t have fooled anyone.”

  “Perhaps you’d better start at the beginning.”

  “All right, I’ll try.”

  (And try she did. She had, in fact, improved her storytelling so much since last time that I have simply quoted her entire as best I can from memory. There were few, if any, deviations from the narrative line, and no digressions to tempt her away from the course of the tale she had set out to tell. A few of her comments seemed then, and seem yet today, to be quite pertinent, and therefore I shall quote them entire.)

  “I was wakened at a time which seemed to me well past midnight. A great hurly-burly had disturbed me, the sound of men and horses and barking dogs. I jumped from my bed to see what it was had caused such a commotion. I looked out just in time to see a troop of men of no small number ride off at a gallop in the direction of Deal. At their head was Sir Simon Grenville, of whom I had seen very little in the past few days.

  “What then? Well, I was awake, wasn’t I? So I put a wrapper round me and found me my slippers. Then, very quietly, did I unlock the door to the hall and step out of my room. In a big house, such as that one, it’s seldom that you have the feeling that it is empty. But this was one of those times. There were no sounds from belowstairs; the dogs barked no more; even the big clock near the door ticked muffled time.

  “And so I saw this as an opportunity to go exploring. It seemed to me that I had not been completely on my own— which is to say, unsupervised—since the day after our arrival, when I had discovered a dead man. Did I wish to find another? No, but I had an overwhelming desire to see what was in that chalk mine. Yet first, I told myself, there were co
rners of this huge house I had not yet explored, rooms whose doors I had not opened.

  “In this way I did begin, driven by curiosity, which is in so many of us a great incentive to action. I opened doors up and down the upstairs hall. Most of these led into closets of one kind or another and were altogether disappointing. There were additional guest bedrooms which were, of course, empty; and at the far end of the hall, beyond the great stairway, were the bedrooms of Sir Simon and his dame. They stood across the hall each from the other and must indeed have been very large. As it happened, however, I never managed to find out. The reason for this remained vague in my mind; in any case how it came to be was uncertain.”

  (If this seems confusing to you, reader, so does it also still to me.)

  “I remember that I was crossing the great open space at the top of the stairway,” said she, ”when of a sudden my attention was drawn down the wide stairs to the ground floor—by a noise of some sort, probably. Since it was the absence of noise in the house that had drawn me out of my room, a noise of the wrong sort might well send me scurrying back into it. I had no wish to be caught out. And so I stood quite still and waited, listening and staring down into the dark. I must have stood so for well over a minute, more likely two or three—for a very long time, anyway—until I was at last satisfied that I might go on. During that long wait, I had decided that I should just take a peek inside the two rooms and then be out the front door and up the hill to the chalk mine. That was what I wished to investigate; there was some purpose in that; what I had been up to until then was nosiness, pure and simple. Yet when I turned back to proceed toward the far end of the hall, I saw something I’m still a bit uncertain as to what it was— though I’ve a good idea.

  “It was at the farthest end of the hall—just movement at first, but then it seemed to come closer, for it seemed to take shape before my eyes. How would I describe it? Well, it was a man, right enough, but he was dressed very odd. He wore great baggy trousers and big boots, and upon his head was a round hat with a wide brim. Taken in total, he looked like one who had stepped right out of the last century. There was the brimstone smell, too: that of sulphur, which gives a proper stink. It was the Grenville Ghost, right down to the last detail—and that made me suspicious. It was all a bit too perfect—or so it seemed to me—and there was one other matter which did not quite tally: the ghost looked a bit too much like Will Fowler—same general appearance, and in the face, well, in spite of the awful chalky paint he wore, I saw Will Fowler’s features. I believe he had dressed up in that outlandish garb just to frighten me back into my room. And so what did I do? I ran—but not back into my room—oh, no. I ran fast as I could down the stairs and out the door. I would not be kept any longer from that chalk mine!

  “Circling the house, I passed the stable, which was so quiet that I was quite certain that every horse in it had been saddled and ridden out in company with Sir Simon. From there, I found my way to the garden and the garden path, which led upward to the chalk mine. I shivered a bit as I worked my way up the path; nor was that surprising, for the wrapper I wore was never intended to keep me warm in the cold night air, and it covered naught but a cotton nightgown. As I approached the out-buildings, I slowed and attempted to walk as soft as my slippers allowed. What I had seen of the rough sort of men who lived in them was enough to tell me that I wanted nothing to do with them. Yet I continued to climb the path, even as it penetrated the wooded area above the out-buildings. There it became deep dark and most frightening to me. Were it not for the abundance of chalk that filled the path and caught the light of the moon, I might have lost my way entirely. Still, I did not, and as I continued, I saw ahead of me a flickering light of no great intensity, which drew me on. As I drew closer, I saw that it marked the entrance to the mine. There was no candle placed in front to give to all a warning. But just within the tunnel which led into the hill of chalk, a candle-holder had been placed and a candle burned brightly. To my eye it seemed to have about an hour left upon it. I proceeded cautiously, listening at every step for any sound that might carry with it the threat of discovery.

  “Perhaps I listened too carefully and did not watch close enough. In any case, I moved ahead with my attention upon the night sounds about me and my eyes fixed upon the entrance to the mine just across an open space about two rods wide. Therefore was I most astonished when, from my right, a dark-dressed figure leapt from behind a tree and grasped me by my shoulders and head. At first 1 thought I had been attacked by a wild animal of some sort—and at that I let out as loud a scream as ever I have screamed. Then a hand covered my mouth—and in a way I was glad of that, for it was a hand after all, and not a paw. What was I to do? Whoever it was who held me was much stronger than I was. I had only to struggle a bit to be certain of that.

  And so I attempted a clever maneuver that is very popular with all the ladies in the romances: I fainted.

  “I’ve no idea how long I was unconscious, nor in all truth just how unconscious I was. Though I saw nothing, I was vaguely aware of voices—male voices—and a strange smell that seemed to permeate the air round me. It was a most remarkable smell: sweet and heavy, as a whole wag-onload of flowers. I could still smell it when I became conscious.”

  “And where was that? Where did you become conscious?” I asked, interrupting her story for the first time. ”Were you in the tunnel? What did you see?”

  “Oh no, not in the tunnel, not in the mine—though I had the feeling I had been there.” She sighed. ”I’m afraid I did not come to myself until Will Fowler had me halfway to the house.”

  “He was carrying you?”

  “Well… yes. You did that once, or don’t you remember?”

  “But you were younger then.”

  “And so were you.” She was about to say more but held her tongue, looked at me queerly, and returned to the subject at hand: ”He’s quite strong, you know. Will Fowler, that is. Nevertheless, I insisted that he put me down.”

  “That’s good,” said I.

  “I assured him that I was quite capable of walking on my own two feet. He seemed to doubt me, but I assured him it was so, and reluctantly he let me try my feet on the path. It was odd, though. I wasn’t near as steady as I expected. I seemed to need his support all the way to the house.”

  “Oh, you did, did you?”

  “Which was rather annoying, after all—though not near as annoying as hearing from him that I’d been sleepwalking, and that he’d found me collapsed upon the garden path. That he should tell me that! He, who had dressed as the Grenville Ghost and tried to frighten me back into my room!”

  “Think now,” said I, ”did he wear still any bits of the ghost’s costume? Did you detect any of that white paint he wore upon his face?”

  She gave but a moment’s thought to it and decided he had not. ”No,” said she, ”I would have noticed those baggy trousers and those floppy boots, right enough. And as for that chalky stuff he wore upon his face, it would surely have glowed still as it did in the house. He managed to change his costume and wipe his face before he rescued me.”

  “Rescued you? Do you feel you were in any real danger?”

  “Why, how am I to know the intentions of that ill-mannered man who jumped out at me from behind that tree?”

  “Mr. Fowler must’ve changed his clothing very quickly.”

  “Hmmm. Yes,” said she, ”he must’ve.”

  “Or you must’ve been unconscious far longer than you seem to think.”

  “I see what you mean.” She hesitated. ”Yes, well, I must think about that.”

  And so saying, she lapsed into silence.

  Even with Clarissa’s tale-telling and the talk between us that followed, it seemed that we had only just reached the outskirts of Deal. Having then little upon which to concentrate my attention, I promptly fell asleep. And why not? By my own reckoning, never had so much happened in so short a space of time—not to me, in any case, nor even to those round me.

  I did not wake t
ill given a gentle shake by Mick Crawly.

  “We’re here, lad,” said he. ”Right here in Middle Street—Number Eighteen.”

  I blinked my eyes and saw that Clarissa was no longer in the coach.

  ”Where did she go?” I asked.

  “The young miss? She had me let her off at the inn—the Good King George in High Street. She said you’d be going on to this address in Middle Street. Did I get it right? This is where I picked you up the other night, an’t it?”

  I nodded and struggled from my seat and out the door of the coach which he held for me. Then, sighing, coughing, still only half awake, I managed to count out the trifling sum he requested and included a bit extra for an ale or two. Then did I look up at the door and see our baggage had been set out upon the doorstep and added another copper to his payment, for which he thanked me.

  “I’ll be ready to serve you just anytime,” said Mr. Crawly. ”You know where to find me. And I won’t ask so many questions next time.”

  With that, he bobbed his head, gave me a wink, and climbed back upon the driver’s seat. Then, with a wave to me and a crack of his whip, he set his team of horses off down the street.

  I knocked hard upon the door, unsure who would come to answer. I was prepared to wait a bit, if wait I must. Still only half awake, I wanted little more than to get back to sleep. For a moment, I seriously considered sitting down upon the doorstep, leaning against the fattest of the portmanteaus, and continuing my doze right there. Yet I was surprised to hear a quick response to my knock—sharp footsteps coming down the long hall—a woman’s step if I was not mistaken, though not Mrs. Sarton’s. The door opened, and I was face to face with Mrs. Keen, proprietor and chief pastry baker at the tearoom in High Street.

  “Ah,” she said, ”it’s you. And where’s your young friend?”