Smuggler's Moon

by Bruce Alexander

  We pallbearers four—constables Bailey, Patley, Perkins, and I—sat off to one side of the church, from which vantage we had a good view of all in attendance. There were not many. Of the eight mourners present, I recognized only three: there was, first of all, the unnamed server in Mrs. Keen’s tearoom; there was also Dick Dickens, once a smuggler and now an exciseman; the third, however, a late arrival, did surprise me completely when he appeared, for it was no less than Sir Simon Grenville.

  At the end of the service, having heard the great amen, we pallbearers came forward and followed the vicar out to the churchyard as we carried the coffin between us. He continued reading aloud from the Book of Common Prayer, yet mumbling as though to himself. Following us were the widow, supported by Mrs. Keen; Sir John, shown the way by Clarissa; and finally, those of the mourners who wished to hear the final graveside prayers.

  Not all of them came. Mr. Dickens, the server from Mrs. Keen’s shop, and one other took that opportunity to absent themselves, so that there were but five trailing in the cortege. The little group fit comfortably about the gravesite. Yet it seemed that they had no more than ringed it round when the vicar, who had been droning on incessantly, tossed in the requisite handful of dirt and suddenly clapped shut his prayer book. Without another word, he turned and left the churchyard in the direction of the vicarage. There were gasps from the ladies at his sudden departure and grumbles from the gentlemen. Only one was heard to laugh, and that one was Sir Simon Grenville.

  Upon hearing his loud cackle, Molly Sarton turned sharply to him and gave him a fierce look.

  “You find that funny, do you, Sir Simon?” said she to him. She had no need to raise her voice, so near together did they stand.

  “Not funny, no, Molly,” said he. ”I found it unconscionably rude, yet to see such rudeness displayed in a manner so open shocked me into laughter.”

  “Ah well, you’ve the words for it, I suppose,” said she.

  “To me, it seemed childish and your response no less so.”

  “I meant no offense.”

  “And I’ll take none from such as you.”

  “Jeremy.” A female voice. I looked round and found Clarissa. ”Sir John asked that you bring Mr. Crawly’s coach round. We feel we must get the two separated before they come to blows.” All in a whisper.

  I nodded and set off immediately, back through the church and out the door. Sir John, Mrs. Sarton, and Clarissa had taken the hackney over to the church, though it was a journey of no more than a quarter mile. It was Sir John’s thought that a ride out of town might do her well after the service. Yet surely he had not foreseen any circumstance such as this. I hastened to Mick Crawly, who stood by his horses muttering to them in friendly fashion as he waited. I explained to him that he was needed immediately round the corner, and immediately did he ascend to his place above and take up his coach whip. All it took, however, was a call from him, and the team surged forward.

  I started to follow but happened to notice as I turned round two men who had been bidden by Mr. Crawly’s hackney. They, who had been talking secretly and earnestly, were now exposed to view, and indeed they liked it not: they ducked and disappeared behind their own coach, which I recognized as Sir Simon Grenville’s. And though I saw the two men only fleetingly, I was sure that one was Sir Simon’s major domo, Mr. Fowler, and the other, Dick Dickens.

  Taking no time to reflect upon it, I jog-trotted to the churchyard gate, where I saw Molly Sarton leaving in the company of Mrs. Keen and Clarissa. Mick Crawly scrambled down from his perch in time to give Mrs. Sarton a hand up into the coach. As I approached, I heard Mrs. Keen giving assurances to her friend that she would go straight to Number 18 Middle Street and be on hand to welcome any who might come by.

  “Not that any will,” came Mrs. Sarton’s voice from the interior of the coach.

  “Ah well, you may be surprised,” said Mrs. Keen. ”At least we’re prepared for them.”

  “We’ve baked for an army.”

  “And that’s the truth.”

  “Come along then, Clarissa. It may be that a drive in the country will do me some good.”

  But Clarissa hung back for a moment, just long enough to whisper to me: ”Sir John will need you. He’s at graveside talking with Sir Simon.”

  “With Sir Simon? Oh dear.”

  “Exactly. Goodbye then. I’ve no idea when we’ll be back.”

  And with that, taking Mick’s hand, she swung up and into the coach. Then in a trice, he was up again in the driver’s seat. With another shout to his horses, they were off again. I looked round me for Mrs. Keen and found her already gone, near to the corner she was already. And so there was naught for me but to square my shoulders and return, hoping as I did so that Sir John had not managed Molly Sarton’s release by assuming her adversarial role.

  A number of the mourners had left. Sir John and Sir Simon stayed on, addressing each other to my relief in fair friendly fashion—one might almost say, as old friends might. As I approached, Sir Simon seemed to be accounting to Sir John for the hostile nature of the exchange which I have described in part.

  “No, we were not always so,” said he to him. ”She was to me earlier a most satisfactory cook, no more nor less. My first wife chose her, and then after a few years my first wife died. Whilst I lived alone, briefly, she served me well enough. But then, as I believe I told you, when I married Marie-Hélène, quite understandably, she wanted a cook of her own choosing. The French take these things very seriously, you know, so there was naught to do but give Molly her notice.”

  “Then you took no part in this persecution of Albert Sarton and Molly, whilst they lived in the same house as master and cook? I understand there was a great show of moral indignation.”

  “Certainly not by me!” declared Sir Simon hotly. ”I care not how the local magistrate and his cook comport themselves. It was to me a matter of complete indifference.”

  Then did the expression on Sir Simon’s face alter to one of sly speculation as he lowered his voice. ”Or perhaps not complete indifference,” said he. ”I will confess I was quite interested in one aspect of it all.”

  “Oh?” said Sir John. ”And what was that?”

  “Well, I daresay that Molly hooked her fish, played him well, and landed him. I give her credit. She carried it off quite skillfully.”

  “Just what are you hinting at, sir? You seem to be saying that she seduced Mr. Sarton into marriage. Have you any proof of that? Is it your opinion?”

  “Proof, I have none, and my opinion will remain my own. Nonetheless, I believe it significant that Molly was years older than Mr. Sarton, don’t you? And ever so much more … well, experienced than he. The poor fellow was an utter failure as a magistrate. Surely you must agree?”

  “I fear I do not,” said Sir John firmly.

  The few who had remained round the grave were now gathered in close to hear the two men talk. One could divine from whispers and unspoken responses that those who listened disapproved of Sir Simon’s remarks and thought them particularly ill-considered at such a time and in such a place, as indeed they were.

  “How can you not, sir? He did naught but offend the local populace—or at least those who mattered. And as for the smuggling hereabouts, he encouraged it by his inactivity. No, Deal is far better off without him.”

  “If that is your feeling, Sir Simon, may I ask why in the world you bothered to attend this funeral service?”

  He fluttered a hand, dismissing the question. ”Oh, in my position, I must attend a good many ceremonies which I should prefer not to attend. For appearances’ sake, you understand.”

  “Oh, indeed I do.”

  “I’ve no idea who will take Sarton’s place—a local man, no doubt. For a time we shall be without a magistrate, and I venture that none will notice.”

  By this time the grumbling from the listeners had grown ominous. Sir Simon, however, seemed to take no notice. He wore his indifference as a shield.

  “I believ
e,” said Sir John, ”that I have a surprise for you, sir. Deal is not without a magistrate, nor is it likely to be.”

  Sir Simon’s eyes narrowed. He stepped back and regarded Sir John in a suspicious, even hostile manner. Though he knew not what this blind fellow had in store, he seemed sure that it betokened little good for him. ”What do you mean?” he asked at last.

  “Why, I mean, sir, that I am the magistrate of Deal for such time as it may take to set things aright.”

  “You? What do you mean by that? On whose authority?”

  Sir Simon was thrown into such disarray by Sir John’s announcement that the shock he felt was written plain upon his face. Laughter was barely suppressed by those who had remained to listen; it emerged in snorts and giggles, which seemed to anger Sir Simon greatly. He looked about him as if ready to demand silence from all. Yet no such order came, for when Sir John cleared his throat and made to speak, all fell quiet.

  “I meant by that, sir, just what I said. I am, by the order of your old friend, Lord Mansfield, given temporary powers as magistrate of the town of Deal and surrounding territories and waters. And as for setting things aright, that is precisely what I intend to do. I intend to discover the murderer of Albert Sarton and bring him to justice. Further, I hope to deal a killing blow to the smuggling trade, if only here in Deal. My authorization and empowerment in this is set out in a letter from the Lord Chief Justice. You may see the letter, if you care to, any time you drop by the magistrate’s residence. Now, is there any part of that you would have me explain further?”

  “No.” Sir Simon appeared so taken aback by the speech from the heretofore nearly silent Sir John that that single syllable was all that he could manage.

  ”And if I may, sir,” Sir John added, ”I should like to introduce you to three of my Bow Street Runners—constables Bailey, Patley, and Perkins.” And so saying, he waved a hand in the precise direction where the three stood together beneath a great elm tree. ”They have come down from London at my invitation. Do make it clear, sir, to your servants and those who work for you, that these men speak for me in all matters to do with the law.”

  He bobbed his head, and at the same time touched his hat in a farewell salute. ”Now if you will pardon us, Sir Simon, we shall take our leave of you. A good day to you, sir.”

  For the rest of the day and for all of the next, the Sarton house was humming with the making of plans and preparations. To what end was kept secret from me, though I was fair certain that it was Sir John’s intention to strike that ”killing blow to the smuggling trade” of which he had spoken to Sir Simon Grenville.

  Endless conferences with the Runners who had come down from London were conducted behind closed doors. Another visit by that slippery individual, Dick Dickens, took place late at night and lasted well past midnight. And I was altogether astonished when, next morning, I was sent off to the heart of town to find Mick Crawly, the driver of the hackney coach.

  “Find him?” said I. ”What then?”

  “Why, fetch him,” said Sir John. ”Tell him I wish to speak with him.”

  I started to go, but then did I stop and turn about, thinking that I might save a bit of time and trouble for myself and for Sir John.

  “Perhaps I could take a message to him,” I suggested. ”If you wish to travel with him somewhere, just tell me where that might be and when you wish to depart. I shall tell him, and he will be here. He is, in that way, quite dependable.”

  “Jeremy, please, just fetch the fellow. The matter between us may take some discussion. It is not the sort of thing that may be handled with a message and a simple reply. Be a good lad, and do as I ask.”

  Yet still I hesitated. ”What if he asks what it is you wish to discuss with him?”

  “Then tell him he will learn that when he comes. Get on with you now. Do as I say.”

  And so, having little or no choice in the matter, I left forthwith for Broad Street I knew the way quite well. Indeed, in the space of time we had been in Deal, I had learned the shape of the town so well that I could have drawn a map of its center and erred little more than in a detail or two. Yet, of the surrounding region I knew very little.

  Even less did I know of the plan—or plans—that Sir John had made to trap the smugglers and put an end to the smuggling trade in Deal. In spite of hints I had dropped to the three London constables, I was coolly ignored. At the time, that did seem to me to be most cruel—particularly in that I counted two of the three among my close friends. And now it seemed that even one of the local hackney coach drivers was to know better than I just what was afoot. What was one to do?

  I was to do naught but what I was told, apparently.

  And so did I make my way along High Street in the direction of Broad Street—Broad Street, where the hackney coaches gathered in line to serve the travelers who arrived there from all points by post coach. Yet just as I arrived and spied Mr. Crawly’s sturdy coach at the head of the waiting line, my attention was drawn by a sound of an unusual sort coming from farther down High Street: it was a tune played on a trumpet—nay, a bugle call—which came from a small troop of mounted men who were making their way up High Street in my direction. They were colorfully and yet familiarly uniformed.

  Had I seen such before? Why, yes, indeed I had. They wore the colors of the King’s Carabineers and were the same mounted troopers who had aided Sir John in the apprehension of the Dutch ship, Dingendam, loaded to the gunwales with stolen treasures. The Bow Street Runners had challenged the ship’s captain, and when he attempted escape, the Carabineers had pursued the ship down the Thames. I knew whence they had come and where they were headed, and I was certain that if we were to fall in behind them, our short journey to the house in Middle Street would take very much longer, for already a crowd of townspeople (which included a full company of children) was gathering round them, cheering them on. I had near forgot that the cavalry was coming.

  I ran to Mr. Crawly, who stood, whip in hand, leaning against a wheel of the coach. I quickly explained the situation to him, and he responded by saying not a word, but by climbing up to his driver’s seat swift as a cat might scale a fence. Only then did he call to me.

  “Come along if you’re comin’, for we’ve not got a moment to spare.”

  Then was I up beside him, near as fast as he had got up there himself.

  “Hold on tight,” said he to me.

  With that, he cracked his whip into the air, and the four horses leapt forward as one. Off we went, round the corner and onto High Street only a bit before the King’s Carabineers themselves had arrived. There were fewer of them than I had at first realized—probably no more than the squad who had galloped down the Thames at Sir John’s order in pursuit of the Dingendam; and at their head I saw the same Lieutenant Tabor, who had led them on that chase.

  “Where are we headed?” asked Mr. Crawly.

  “To Middle Street—the magistrate’s house,” I shouted my reply.

  “That’s to pick somebody up? Just to Middle Street an’t much of a fare.”

  ”No, Sir John asked to see you. He says he has something to discuss with you.”

  “Discuss, is it? Sounds a bit hazardous. The last time a magistrate had a discussion with me, it cost me two days work and a five-shilling fine. That was the old magistrate, Mr. Kemp.”

  “Well, Sir John has no such intentions with you, I’m sure.”

  I noted that it was no longer necessary for me to shout. Turning round, I saw that the contingent of cavalry lagged considerably behind—had now, in fact, come to a halt somewhere near the Broad Street corner, so tightly surrounded were they by the enthusiastic citizens of Deal. As I watched, the bugler put his horn to his lips and played another tune.

  Middle Street was as I had left it, empty of all but two or three pedestrians who could be seen in the distance. I tried to imagine just how this quiet scene might look with the addition of horses and red-coated cavalrymen; yet try as I might I could not suppose them there.


  “Number Eighteen, is it?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Crawly.”

  And just then he pulled back on the reins, and as the horses slowed, he applied the brake. The judicious use of both brought us to an easy halt just at Number 18.

  I bounded down from the top of the coach and, with a promise to return just as soon as I might, left him and was admitted through the front door by Clarissa, who had been watching through a window, awaiting my return.

  “Is Sir John in that little room there?” I asked.

  “He is,” said she, ”but he’s with someone now.”

  “Oh? Who?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said she in a rather airy manner. ”Never have I seen the man before. He’s certainly an unpleasant sort, however.”

  I could not think who that unpleasant man might be. Certainly we had met some in Deal who might fit that description, yet it seemed to me that Clarissa could put names to most of them.

  “Did Sir John ask that he not be disturbed?”

  “No, not so far as I remember.”

  “Well then,” said I, ”I’ll chance it.”

  And so saying, I beat stoutly upon the door to the little room. Hearing something not quite understandable called from inside, I chose to take it as an invitation to enter and threw open the door. There behind the desk was Sir John, exactly where I had left him; the expression upon his face was such that I had no need to fear I had displeased him by my sudden entry. Yet there was displeasure aplenty written upon the face of his guest, who was no less than the Chief Customs Officer for eastern Kent—that is to say, Mr. George Eccles. Mr. Eccles had done little since last they met at Lord Mansfield’s to endear himself to Sir John; the scowl upon his face made that plain.

  “Ah, Jeremy, is it you?” asked Sir John. ”You may recall our previous encounter with Mr. Eccles?” I bowed politely as Sir John continued: ”He has been telling me of the sad outcome of his dealings with the Chancellor of the Exchequer. And I had just explained to him why it is that I sit here, rather than the duly appointed magistrate to the town of Deal. And he, I must say, seemed to dismiss the death of Mr. Sarton as a matter of little importance.”