The Guinea Stamp

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  Jackson shook his head. “I cannot say that. But I have the strongest grounds for my suspicion.”

  The other man whistled. “But why in the world should a man like that take such a course?”

  “I can only conjecture. But now we must get some sleep. The night is already far advanced, and there’s brisk work ahead of us tomorrow.”

  They did not sleep, though, but played cards until the first streaks of dawn appeared low over the grey, turbulent sea. Only then did they lie down, fully clothed, for a few hours, leaving one man to keep watch.

  They were awakened by him just short of nine o’clock.

  “There’s someone approaching from the cliff,” he said, quickly.

  “It may only be the messenger I’m expecting,” said Jackson, leaping to his feet. “Give me the perspective glasses, someone.”

  They were quickly put into his hand. He stood at the door of the hut, carefully scanning the track which led from the cliff.

  “Would a man reach Totnes and back so soon?” asked one man, doubtfully, coming to his side.

  “Four hours?” asked Jackson, his eyes still upon the advancing figure. “Egad, man, we’re speaking of the Navy!”

  The other grunted: he was an Army man, himself.

  “I can’t be sure,” went on Jackson, frowning. “He’s not in uniform, of course—”

  He drew the other man back within the shelter of the door, and closed it.

  “Let him knock,” he said, “He’s outnumbered, be he friend or foe.”

  The minutes passed, tension mounting. Number Six produced a pistol, and trained it on the door. Jackson nodded, his hand poised on the latch.

  Footsteps sounded clearly on the stony track outside. They halted, and there followed a quiet tapping on the door. Three knocks, then silence; this was followed by a single, sustained knock.

  Jackson suddenly flung back the door. Number Six stepped forward smartly, covering the newcomer with his pistol.

  “The password,” said a voice familiar to all, “is Horatio!”

  Number Six lowered the pistol, and laughed. The rest, after one startled glance at the newcomer, followed suit.

  “My dear chap,” protested Jackson, clapping the visitor on the shoulder, “not that fungus again!”

  “I know what it is with you,” retorted the newcomer. “You’re envious—you couldn’t wear a beard, not with those features. Come to that, I can’t think how you contrive to go on with them at all—but, there, everyone has his trials.”

  “Come to the point, Number One. I must say, I never looked to see you as our messenger! Is everything arranged?”

  “As right as a trivet. Mark you, Kellaway almost went off into an apoplexy—was for making an arrest there and then, once we’d managed to convince him of the truth.”

  “I should imagine he’s a difficult man to restrain. How did you manage it?”

  “Acquit me. The Admiral made no trouble of it at all. Kellaway is now standing by, ready for marching orders.”

  “Then there is nothing else to hinder me,” remarked Jackson, with a sigh of relief. “Except a little matter of breakfast.”

  This remark found general approval, and the matter was attended to with dispatch. While they were busy eating, Jackson gave a few last minute orders.

  “Let me come with you,” said Number One. “Something may go awry, and at least there’ll be two of us to meet it.”

  Captain Jackson shook his head. “If anything’s to go wrong, then it had better be for one alone,” he said, firmly. “More cannot be spared.”

  After the rough meal was over, Jackson made his simple preparations for departure. They were soon concluded: then he drew Number One aside.

  “There’s just a remote possibility,” he said, in a low tone, “that this affair may finish otherwise than we have planned. If that should be so, and you should know for certain that I am not to return, will you deliver this for me?”

  He pressed into the other’s hand a letter. Glancing down at it, Number One saw that it was directed to Miss Feniton.

  “I will,” he said abruptly, frowning. “Good fortune go with you—Peter.”

  He lowered his head, and they clasped hands for a moment in silence.

  Then Jackson broke away, bidding an easy farewell to the others. That done, he left the hut, and turned his steps inland.

  It was not quite an hour later that he came to the village of Babbacombe. He glanced sharply about him as he made for the smithy, but the sleepy little hamlet seemed deserted.

  The door of the forge stood open, so that he could see the glow of the fire, and hear the blows of the smith’s hammer on the anvil. He hesitated for a second on the threshold, then, squaring his shoulders, walked inside.

  The smith at once left his work, and came forward, a hammer in his hand. Jackson eyed this warily, keeping his own hand on the knife in his belt. The smith was a burly man, after the way of his kind, but it seemed that his immediate intentions were not aggressive. He threw down the hammer, and looked inquiringly at his visitor.

  “I came to show you this,” said Jackson, and produced the French victory medallion.

  The man inspected it carefully, then motioned with his hand to a door leading through to the back of the house. He handed back the token, picked up his hammer, and went on with his task which Jackson had interrupted, without uttering a single word.

  The Captain hesitated again. A man needs his full share of courage to walk knowingly into a trap. Then he went forward resolutely, and opened the door. It closed quietly behind him.

  He found himself in a small, dim room, sparsely furnished. He looked about him sharply; there appeared to be no one there. He noticed another door at the far end of the room. This he tried, but found it locked.

  He waited for perhaps ten minutes, not knowing quite what action to take. A strong instinct warned him to make his escape, while he yet had the chance. He repressed the feeling sternly. He had come as far as this in order to confirm his suspicions as to the identity of the man who was at the head of this spy ring. He must not falter now—and, anyway, no doubt the tension was all part of their game.

  At last, he heard the smith’s hammer cease its metallic din. He waited, expectantly.

  Behind him, his quick ears caught the slight creak of the door which led into the forge. He swung round quickly, his knife half drawn from its sheath.

  A man stood there in the opening. Jackson knew him for one of the agents whom he had brought over from France to do the enemy’s work on the Devon coast. He shut the door carefully behind him, and stood facing Jackson, a mocking smile on his mouth.

  “Ah, mon capitaine. But it is enchanting to meet you again! We began to fear that you could not come,” he said, in French.

  “My apologies for the delay,” replied Jackson, speaking in the same language with a faultless accent, “but I have been extremely occupied of late. As you doubtless know, I have other duties to perform.”

  “Ah, yes.” The tones were silky. “We are very interested in these other duties of yours. They seem to take you into some strange places—and among some strange company, mon capitaine—if that is what you are.”

  “Smuggling, of course, does take a man into strange places, c’est entendu,” answered Jackson, with a Gallic shrug, ignoring the final thrust.

  “No doubt. But does it in general lead him into assignations with young ladies of quality?”

  “My private life is my own concern,” snapped Jackson.

  “Assuredly,” replied the other, smoothly. “But it is all too often a mistake, mon capitaine, to mix business with pleasure. In this instance, it has cost you dear.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Jackson, sharply.

  “Why, simply this,” said the other, speaking very deliberately, and watching his face, “that the young lady to whom you entrusted so much of your story has betrayed you.”

  “Betrayed me! Impossible! You lying dog—!”

  His words broke
off, as some instinct warned him of someone standing behind him. He turned sharply; but it was too late.

  Even as he moved, the butt end of a pistol was brought down upon his head. For a moment he tottered, not completely succumbing to the blow.

  “You did that extremely well, Poindé,” approved a voice. “He was so engrossed in what you were saying, that he did not hear my approach.”

  The voice was familiar, though was not using the language which Captain Jackson was accustomed to hearing from that source. As he sank into unconsciousness, he carried with him the sound of that voice, and the image of that face towering over him, its expression one of savage triumph.

  Both voice and face he recognized, in that brief moment before the darkness engulfed him.

  They were those of Captain Masterman.

  EIGHTEEN - Joanna’s Trust is Misplaced

  The next morning Miss Feniton was sitting quietly with Lady Lodge in the morning room. Kitty and Mr. Dorlais had been invited to spend the day with one of the Naval officers whose wife had obtained lodging in a cottage down by the quay. As the cottage was small, the officer concerned was unable to invite a larger party from Shalbeare House in return for Lady Feniton’s hospitality to him: Guy Dorlais was an old friend of his, and as such, the natural person to be asked.

  It was always a relief now to Joanna not to be required to be in company with Mr. Dorlais, so she could not feel sorry at their absence. Lady Lodge, however, had some lingering doubts as to the propriety of Kitty’s being allowed to visit a family with whom her parents were not thoroughly acquainted, solely in the company of her affianced. She mentioned the matter hesitantly to Joanna.

  “I do not think, ma’am,” replied Joanna, “that you need be in any alarms. Lieutenant Ridge was here to dine the other evening, and you found him everything that was amiable.”

  “Yes, so I did—did I not?” asked Kitty’s mother, pleased at this reflection. “Indeed, he was quite the gentleman—there was nothing that one could take the least exception to, don’t you agree, Joanna? I dare say his wife will be just such another person—a ladylike, pleasing young woman, who will make a very proper chaperone for my girl.”

  “Just so,” replied Joanna, soothingly. “You need have no further worry on that head.”

  She felt a pang of conscience as she said the words. She was far from being completely easy herself about her friend, but for very different reasons from those of Lady Lodge. Knowing what Guy Dorlais was, how could she be certain that Kitty would come to no harm in his company? True, he loved her: Joanna was confident of that much, at least. She could only hope that his affection was sufficiently strong for him not to involve Kitty in any of his misdeeds. But it was surely absurd to imagine that any harm could come to Kitty in a visit to a cottage in Tor Quay, only a short walk away from Shalbeare House? Her mind wavered this way and that, trying to rationalize a growing unease of spirit; but there was no point in allowing Lady Lodge to share her fears.

  “Such a pity our party is quite broken up!” declared the dowager, turning her mind to a fresh topic of conversation. “First Captain and Miss Masterman being obliged to leave, and now Mr. Cholcombe, too, is gone! I declare, we shall be quite dull.”

  “You are scarcely flattering to those of us who are left,” said Joanna, with a little smile.

  “Oh, how you do take one up, my dear. You are such a quiz, you know! It all comes of being clever, I suppose, for I never had any talent for it—but you know well enough what I meant. It is pleasant to have a good company about one during these dreary winter months—and Mr. Cholcombe was so very lively always, was he not?”

  “I suppose he was,” replied Joanna. To her annoyance, a faint blush came to her cheek.

  Lady Lodge gave her a penetrating look. “I rather fancy your Grandmama did not quite like it that he should leave so soon,” she said, tentatively. “Even though he did ask if he might return in a few days’ time, when his business should have been concluded.”

  “No, perhaps she didn’t,” answered Joanna, shortly.

  She bent her head studiously over the magazine she was holding, and hoped that her companion might take the hint. Lady Lodge was evidently not to be put off, however, for she laid her own book aside, and leaned forward confidentially.

  “My dear Joanna, I’ve no wish to be impertinent, but after all, I am a very old friend. I have wondered—did Mr. Cholcombe make you an offer? Augusta has said nothing but I know you would not object to tell me.”

  Joanna winced. She had been obliged to answer the same question from Lady Feniton, and been involved in quite a scene as a result. There could be no possible harm, though, in telling Lady Lodge how matters stood. She was not one to gossip about other people’s concerns, however dearly she loved to pry into them. Besides, Joanna knew that she had a very real affection for this one-time schoolfellow of her daughter’s.

  “I dare say Grandmama may have wished to wait until my own intentions are clear. Yes, Mr. Cholcombe did speak—though only to me, not to my grandparents.”

  “He did? My dear, how very—” She stopped dead, seeing from Miss Feniton’s face that congratulations were not in order. The significance of Joanna’s first words gradually penetrated her mind. “Am I—am I right in thinking that you did not give him his answer on that occasion?”

  Joanna nodded, unable to meet her questioner’s eye.

  “Well, to be sure,” said Lady Lodge, doubtfully, “in my day, we were always taught never to assent the first time we were asked—it was considered immodest, you know, to do so! But I should have supposed that you, in particular, might have set such conventions aside. You are so very sensible, my dear—and it is always possible that a young man may not ask twice!”

  “You are quite right, ma’am,” said Joanna, vigorously. “And I have no use at all for such elegant nonsense! But in this instance, you see”—her voice tailed away—“I did not perfectly know my own mind.”

  “Not know your own mind? But surely it was all decided before ever Mr. Cholcombe arrived? I certainly understood—”

  “I—oh, yes, it was agreed upon beforehand,” said Joanna, in some confusion. “But it is one thing, you must know, ma’am, to contemplate such a serious step as matrimony, and quite another to take it. Especially when one’s knowledge of the other party is so small as in this case.”

  “You find, perhaps, that Mr. Cholcombe is not to your—not quite what you had expected?”

  Joanna hesitated.

  “If there is any doubt in your mind at all, my dear,” said Lady Lodge, in a burst of confidence, “do not allow yourself to be persuaded! Augusta and I have known each other for a good many years, so that it is impossible for me not to know that hers is a—somewhat forceful character. As you may realize, I myself am not a particularly courageous person: but I will undertake to lend you what support I can, should you decide that you cannot possibly accede to your grandparents’ wishes in this matter.”

  At this kind speech, Miss Feniton’s eyes filled with tears. She could not wholly account for such an unusual occurrence, and was trying to compose herself sufficiently to return an answer to her visitor’s kindness, when Lady Feniton herself suddenly entered the room. It was evident that she had news to impart.

  “What do you think?” she began. “Sir George has just met one of the officers on his morning stroll, and he has given him some astonishing news! A French spy has lately been arrested in Babbacombe village!”

  Joanna started violently. Her first thought was of Guy Dorlais, and her second of Kitty. Lady Lodge gave a little shriek, and dropped the book she was holding.

  “Augusta! So close to us! How dreadful!”

  “There is no cause for alarm, Letitia,” went on Lady Feniton, “for he has been removed to Totnes, and lodged in a cell at the Guildhall. He won’t find it easy to break out of there, I fancy.”

  Lady Lodge continued to make incoherent murmurs of alarm, however, and at last Lady Feniton turned somewhat impatiently to her
granddaughter, with the rest of the story.

  “It happened yesterday,” she said, evidently relishing her role of informant. “It seems that an information had been laid against this man, and it became known that he could be found in Babbacombe. Accordingly, some of the local Volunteers went to the village, and surprised him at the smithy. He was searched, and some highly incriminating documents were discovered concealed upon his person—treasonable matter, by what I can hear. I trust he will speedily meet the fate he deserves!”

  “Babbacombe!” exclaimed Joanna, struck by a sudden thought. “Why, if you remember, ma’am, that was the word which was cut out of Grandpapa’s book!”

  Lady Feniton frowned. “Why, yes, so it was! But I don’t see how it can signify: there can be no connection with this affair.”

  Lady Lodge emitted a frightened squeak of protest. “For Heaven’s sake, Joanna, do not say that there are spies in this house! Oh, dear, we live in such troublous times, that one cannot feel safe anywhere!”

  “Nonsense, Letitia!” reproved Lady Feniton, sharply. “You must know very well that Joanna could mean no such thing! Spies in Shalbeare House, indeed!”

  “Besides, Lady Lodge, this man would be a Frenchman,” pointed out Joanna, in a soothing tone. “All our servants are English, you know.”

  She was feeling easier herself now that she had been told that the man was arrested yesterday. At any rate, he could not be Mr. Dorlais.

  “Nothing of the kind,” interposed her grandmother. “That’s what is so very shocking about the business. The man was English, so I am informed.”

  “English!” repeated Joanna, sharply. “Pray, ma’am, do you recollect what his name was? Or were you not told?”

  Lady Feniton pondered for a moment, then looked a trifle annoyed. “La, the name has gone right out of my head, child! I fear my memory is not what it used to be. However, Sir George will no doubt be able to tell you, though I fail to see what it can possibly benefit you to know.”

  She continued to speak further on the subject, though there was little to add to what had already been told. Joanna was only half listening, and presently made some excuse to leave the room.