by Robin Paige
“The tunnel entered at this point,” Kipling said, going to a tier of wooden shelves. “But there is no access, you see—it is entirely blocked.”
Behind the shelves, Kate could make out the arched outline of an opening that had been filled in with bricks and plastered over. She turned and looked around, thinking that Aunt Georgie was entirely right. The setting suggested all kinds of ideas for a story, or perhaps even a book. The present cellar contained only the detritus of previous households—broken chairs, a dirty piece of carpet, rusty tools—but she fancied she could see it as it must have been a hundred years before, filled with wooden kegs of fine brandy and boxes of cigars and French lace. She could imagine, as well, a gang of crafty smugglers, led by the man who had built the house, gathering to celebrate their latest success by tapping into one of the precious kegs.
“You’ve explored all the nooks and crannies, I suppose,” Charles said thoughtfully. Kate looked at him curiously. He seemed to be sniffing the air.
“Actually, no,” Kipling said. “We’ve been here less than a month, and with John’s arrival...” The candle guttered and he shielded it with his hand. “Carrie’s right, y‘know,” he said uneasily. “This place is in no fit state. P’rhaps I’d just better lock up the door and declare the cellar out of bounds.”
At Kate’s elbow, Aunt Georgie spoke firmly. “The tunnel is blocked here,” she said, wrapping her shawl more securely around her. “But that does not mean that there are no other openings in this cellar—or that all the, openings are blocked. The tunnels are said to have led from the cliffs to every consequential house in the village. To the vicarage, where the Reverend Dr. Hooker was the watchman for the local smuggling ring—and to Seabrooke House, of course,” she added, turning to Kate. “I was told that one of the Seabrookes—Richard, I think it was—earned quite a good living by hauling goods to Falmer and Lewes. His brother was in league with the Hawkhurst Gang, and was responsible for arranging capital to finance their endeavors.”
“That’s very interesting,” Kate said, thinking of the cellar below Seabrooke House, almost as large as this one, and the spilled brandy and evidence of bottles that had been taken away. “I shall have a look for evidence of a tunnel in our cellar.”
“And the ghost?” Charles asked lightly, turning to Kipling. “You say you heard him recently?”
“A few nights ago,” Kipling said. In a mischievous tone, he added, “We can extinguish the candle and wait, if you like,” and suited the deed to the word.
Kate gasped as the chill dark closed suddenly around them. Beside her, Aunt Georgie shivered. They stood for a moment huddled tensely together, listening to the muffled footfalls of the servants moving around in the kitchen over their heads. Then even that noise ceased, and all Kate could hear was the low sound of their communal breathing. And then, just as she was feeling that they had waited long enough, she heard something else: a heavy, echoing thud on the other side of the wall, but very distant, as if it were miles away—or years ago. A second later, there was another thud, and a low rumble.
“There!” Kipling exclaimed in a jocular tone, out of the dark. “Is everyone satisfied that we have heard the ghost, or do we prefer to wait for the rattling of chains?”
“I believe I am quite persuaded,” Aunt Georgie replied. She spoke with a self-possessed air, although Kate could feel her trembling.
“I too,” Kate said quickly.
“And I,” Charles replied. “You have shown us your ghost, Rud.”
“Well, then,” Kipling said, and struck a match. “Shall we adjourn to the parlor and report our adventure to Carrie, and see if the serving maid has provided us with dessert and coffee?”
Walking back to Seabrooke House along the silent, moonlit street of the little village, Kate thought that it did not take much imagination to see the place as it must have been in the time of King George, when mothers and children shut themselves up in the dark houses while the men and boys were busy on the beach and in the tunnels, leaving the deserted street and the treacherous, windswept path along the cliff to the patrolling guard. She was deep in reflection, thinking that Rottingdean would indeed be a marvelous setting for one of Beryl’s stories, when Charles spoke. His voice was amused.
“Well, my dear, what did you think of Kipling’s ghost?”
Kate matched his light tone. “He made an impressive thud or two, but I should like to have seen him.”
He smiled down at her. “You caught a whiff of him, didn’t you?”
Kate was surprised. “A whiff?”
He nodded. “I should have thought that the cellar, so long closed up, would be musty. But I caught the distinct odor of a sea breeze. The ghost must be an old salt, fresh from the briny depths.” His voice became sepulchral. “Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest. Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum.”
Kate laughed, then stopped, intrigued. “But if you could smell the sea breeze, that means that the tunnel is not entirely closed up!”
“I should think so,” Charles said. “Interesting, isn’t it?” He paused, looking down at her, his eyes concerned. “I hope the evening wasn’t too trying for you, Kate.”
Somewhere in the distance a dog barked, and a cloud veiled the moon. “The children, you mean,” she said.
“Yes.” He pulled her arm under his, and matched his step to hers. “You were very brave.”
Kate cast a sideways glance at her husband, loving the strength of his face, the firm nose and sensitive mouth, the kind brown eyes. But it was a shuttered face. Charles Sheridan was a true British gentleman, reserved, stoic, naturally reticent. He had never spoken to her of the bitter disappointment she was sure he must feel, knowing that there would never be a son to carry on the traditions and responsibilities of Somersworth. And he had never even hinted that the whole thing might have been her fault for being so reckless as to risk her health for the sake of a few good deeds. Often, when his glance lingered on her, then moved away, she feared he would say it, and that it would be a revelation from which they could never retreat, which would slice them apart like a red-hot blade. Almost as often, though, she wished he would speak, for what lay unsaid and unacknowledged was as hurtful as any accusation.
But tonight she did not want to risk hearing what was hidden in his heart, for it might mar the few weeks they had to spend in this idyllic place. So she murmured something that sounded like “Thank you,” and looked up at the waning moon, half hidden in a wreath of silver clouds.
“It is a glorious night, isn’t it?” she said. “It is so wonderful to be alone with you, my dear, with no one to watch or criticize what we are doing, and no one to please but ourselves.”
Charles bent to kiss her, then put his arm around her shoulder and they walked together down the quiet street. But Kate was wrong. They were not alone—and they were watched.
8
One of the outrages [perpetrated by smugglers] was the death
of a patrolling customs man at Cuckmere Haven. Fearing
that his attentions would interfere with their landing, the
gang moved the lumps of white chalk that the officer used as
way-markers for his moonlight sorties along the cliff-edge. Instead
of leading him safely along the coast path, the stones
lured the poor man over the parapet. Hearing his cries as he
tumbled over the precipice, the gang emerged from hiding,
only to find the man desperately hanging by his fingertips.
Deaf to pleas for mercy, one of the gang cynically trod on
their adversary’s fingertips, sending him tumbling to the rocks
below.
—RICHARD PLATT Smugglers’ Britain
At long last, Patrick was beginning to appreciate Mondays. For the three years he had boarded with Mrs. Higgs, he had attended the village school, handing over his obligatory threepenny bit to Mr. Forsythe each Monday morning and suffering through endless, sleepy recitals of sums and spelling words with t
he other village children, some as young as three, who shared the single classroom with him. Patrick had an innate curiosity and was quick to learn, and he soon wrote and read skillfully. Under other circumstances, he might have been an able young scholar. But Mr. Forsythe’s tedious instruction was hardly inspiring, and the warmth of the classroom and the monotonous murmurs of the children set him dozing. He much preferred the freedom of the village and the downs to confinement behind the gates of learning.
That confinement was at an end, at least for now. Patrick had expected that he would be sent from the village school to prep at St. Aubyn‘s, which had been established some sixty years before by the many-talented Dr. Thomas Red-man Hooker, Master of the Hunt, vicar of St. Margaret’s, and reputed lookout for the Rottingdean smugglers. Now, the school was taught by a less colorful team of masters, Mr. Stanford and Mr. Lang, and was made up of seven sallow-faced boys, sons of wealthy and distinguished men. But Patrick’s father, neither distinguished nor wealthy, had unfortunately failed to send his son’s tuition. He had, as well, failed to pay his son’s boarding bill, which was now some ten months in arrears. As a consequence, Patrick had escaped confinement at St. Aubyn’s and was more gainfully employed.
“Ye’re t’ fetch a basket from Mrs. Ridsdale, at Th’ Dene, and another at North End ‘Ouse,” Mrs. Higgs said as they sat at the small table in the kitchen, over steaming bowls of breakfast porridge. “Then ye’re t’ go t’ The Elms, where they ’ave th’ new babe, an’ fetch wotever’s been got ready. But first, ye’re t’ carry six buckets o’ water from th’ tap, an’ fire up th’ copper i’ th’ wash’ouse.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Patrick said, wolfing down his toast and tea and wishing fervently that Mrs. Higgs’s cottage was on the mains that came in from Brighton, so he wouldn’t have to haul water all the way from the village tap. “Is that all?”
“Until lunch, when I’ll need six more buckets.” Mrs. Higgs tore pieces of bread into a saucer of milk for the calico cat. “Off wi’ ye, now. I’ve a big laundry t’do today.”
Patrick didn’t need any special urging. The hours since the body had been towed in had been uncomfortable ones, and he had several times wished that he’d not told Mr. Kipling what he had seen. Mr. Kipling had required him to tell the man in the brown beard—Lord Charles Sheridan—and if Constable Woodhouse hadn’t proved himself a pigheaded fool, he might have been required to tell him, as well. And that would certainly have created difficulties, for the constable was not to be trusted. In the event, he was glad that Mr. Kipling had gotten annoyed and decided to let dundering old Woodhead discover his own clues.
Having dutifully delivered six buckets of water and seven baskets of dirty laundry, Patrick was free for his chief employment, at the Hawkham Stable behind North End House. He worked there for Harry Tudwell four hours each morning and five each afternoon, and paid half his earnings to Mrs. Higgs against the delinquent board bill. What Mrs. Higgs did not know, however, was that Harry Tudwell often employed Patrick on other errands in the late evenings, when the boy was supposed to be abed, and that Patrick hid those secret shillings under a stone in the abandoned windmill at the top of Beacon Hill. In the event his father was never heard from again—which was quite likely, in Patrick’s estimation—those shillings would be the only key to his future.
Patrick’s work at the Hawkham Stables was far more interesting than his work in the classroom. The stables had been built in the 1860’s by a wealthy lord who raced at White Hawk Down, a little way to the west and north. Since then, they had passed to a consortium of owners, most of them residents of Brighton, who raced at White Hawk and hunted with the Brookside Harriers under the direction of the well-known Rottingdean Master, Steyning Beard. This made for a continuous coming and going of gentlemen between Brighton and White Hawk and Hawkham and the kennel, and plenty of odd jobs for eager Rottingdean boys.
The stables were built around three sides of a graveled yard, in the lee of Beacon Hill. On one side was the coach house, which now sheltered the rickety coaches that plied the Rottingdean-Brighton coach run. The other two sides were enclosed by stalls for fine horses, each stall equipped with an iron manger for grain, a hayrack on the wall, and a door opening into the brick-paved walkway. At one end of the walkway was the red-tiled tack room with its saddle racks and gear hanging on the wall, and next to that the chaff room with its lethal chaff-cutting machine—a vicious blade on a big wheel—which Patrick and the other stableboys treated with respect. Trusses of hay were stacked nearby and more could be pushed down through a trapdoor from the loft above, where the stableboys could be found taking their leisure on a lazy afternoon.
At the other end of the walkway was the stablemaster’s office, with a scarred wooden table that served for a desk, a wooden chair, and windows from which Harry Tudwell, who had been stablemaster for over a decade, could oversee the gravel yard on the one side, the exercise paddock on the other, and the smithy beyond. The smell of Harry’s room was delectably compounded of tobacco, saddle soap, and metal polish, and on its wooden walls were hung framed newspaper clippings, including one that described the remarkable Derby of 1863, run in torrential rain and preceded by thirty-four false starts. The favored horse, Lord Clifden, slipped on an orange peel near the finish line, lost the race by a head, and beggared half the English peerage. Not Harry Tudwell, however. Patrick had overheard him telling one of the grooms that he had been clever enough to bet on the winner—but not rich enough to bet very much.
Of all the men Patrick knew, he admired Harry Tudwell the most. Mr. Tudwell had befriended him when he was deserted by his father, had taken him fishing and taught him to shoot, and in other small ways had been a father to him. Patrick felt a strong affection for the stablemaster, believing him to be the most astutely intelligent man in the entire village, a genius, even. But Patrick’s judgment was hardly objective, and perhaps it should be said merely that Harry Tudwell’s was an entrepreneurial genius. He was not only competent in managing the stables—which required long discussions with nervous owners on acquiring, training, breeding, and disposing of valuable horses—but in a variety of other business undertakings as well. By somewhat circuitous means, he had acquired a share in Gerald Pott’s smithy, another in John Landsdowne’s chemist shop, and still another in Mrs. Howard’s dress shop. Probably, if one investigated more fully, one would have discovered Harry Tudwell’s dexterous finger in most of the pies of the village. Further, as an elected member of the Parish Council, he had supported Magnus Volk’s ambitious scheme to build the Brighton and Rottingdean Seashore Electric Railway from the Banjo Groyne to Rottingdean Gap. The railway, a quite extraordinary undertaking, was now completed. It may have been Magnus Volks’s idea, but it would never have succeeded if Harry Tudwell hadn’t talked over the Parish Council, and everybody in the village knew it and appreciated what Harry Tudwell had done for Rottingdean.
As he always did when he reached the stables, Patrick reported directly to Mr. Tudwell. The stablemaster was sitting with his shiny boots propped up on the wooden table, reading yesterday’s London Times, which had come down to Brighton on the train and been carried to Rottingdean in the pack of a courier who brought certain other news.
“Good morning, Mr. Tudwell,” Patrick said, taking off his knit cap and turning it in his hands. If he was nervous, it was with good reason. Mr. Tudwell, who knew everything that went on in the village, was bound to know about the coast guard’s death, and he might also know that Patrick had seen something he shouldn’t.
The Times came down, but the boots stayed up. “Mornin’, Paddy,” Mr. Tudwell said with a stern look. Somewhere in his lineage there lurked a Scot, for he was a sandy-haired, ruddy-cheeked, clean-shaven man with bright blue eyes and pale lashes. He took a gold watch out of his plaid waistcoat and glanced at it.
Patrick read the glance, and responded with relief. “Seven baskets of laundry, sir.” If Mr. Tudwell could be angry at him about the small matter of being late, he must not have dis
covered the larger. “And six buckets of wash water,” he added. “It took longer than I expected.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Tudwell, and put his watch away. But surely the stablemaster was troubled about something, for his face was drawn and there was a worried frown between his eyes. “Well, ‘tis late enough, boy, an’ ye’d best get t’ th’ stalls. A thorough cleanin’, if ye please. Mr. Battersby will be ‘ere t’ inspect ’is new ‘orse this afternoon. ’E ’as a strict eye for detail, ’e does.”
At that moment, Mr. Landsdowne, the village chemist, opened the door and stepped into the office. He was a tall man, stooped and painfully thin, wearing a rusty old black coat that contrasted incongruously with highly polished new black boots. Patrick knew that he should leave to clean the stalls, but he gave in to his curiosity and faded into the corner, as if he were waiting to be dismissed.
“Mornin’, ’Arry,” Mr. Landsdowne said. He took off his black hat and shifted his weight nervously. “Some of the men wanted me t’ ask you about—”
“About George Radford’s killin’ hisself, I s‘pose ye mean, John,” Mr. Tudwell said, and leaned back in his chair. A somber look replaced the frown. “Sad business, ain’t it? Poor boy, so young, an’ with a wife an’ children at ’ome. ‘E’s to be pitied, not blamed, is wot I sez.”
Mr. Landsdowne swallowed and his adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “ ‘Twas def’nitely suicide, then?”
Mr. Tudwell nodded. “George was giv’n t’ black moods, y‘know. One evenin’ at Th’ Plough, I ’eard ‘im say ’e’d thought many times of throwin’ hisself off th’ cliff. Tom Brown was there when ’e said it. ’E ’eard it too, an’ will testify to it.” Mr..Tudwell looked up at Mr. Landsdowne. “Mebbee there’re some others who’ve ’eard somethin’ of th’ like—yerself, mebbee?”
