Death at Rottingdean

by Robin Paige

  “Tudwell.” Someone shook him roughly, rolled him over on his back, toed him with a boot.

  “Tudwell!”

  Hands yanked the wad of cloth out of his mouth. A torrent of icy water spilled across his face. He choked and gasped and his eyes popped wide open.

  Two faces and a lantern loomed over him out of the dark.

  “Ah, he’s coming around,” Rudyard Kipling said briskly. “Come on, Harry. Time to wake up.”

  “Snap out of it, man,” said a deeper voice. It was the toff with the fancy hat and the creased trousers, except now he wore a canvas jacket and a pair of old tweeds. He didn’t look quite so toffish, somehow. “We want you to tell us what’s going on.”

  Harry closed his eyes, trying giddily to sort through the dire misadventures that had befallen him. It was true that he had been deceived and double-crossed, but that was all in the line of work, so to speak, all part of the game. Betraying his betrayers to an outsider, to a representative of the Crown—that was a far darker dishonor than any that had been done to him. He could not bring himself to it. He opened his eyes. In the sky above, lightning flickered. A cold wind was blowing, bringing with it the first spits of rain.

  “I took a fall,” he muttered.

  “And tied and gagged yourself into the bargain.” Kipling sounded half-amused. “Quite a trick.”

  “Come, come, Harry,” Lord Sheridan said sharply. “We’ve been watching. We saw what your two compatriots did to you, and we know it is part of a plan. We want to know what they’re aiming to do.”

  Harry was sullenly silent.

  Lord Sheridan sighed. “Look here, Tudwell. There is more to this than you know. These investors you believe to be backing your enterprise—they are not what you think them to be. In fact, if I’m correct, there are no investors. You have been deceived, Harry.” His voice dripped scorn. “You have been a fool.”

  “No investors?” Harry asked, startled. “But then where did the money—” He clamped his mouth shut. They couldn’t goad him into speech. “Ye’ll get nothin’ from me,” he said.

  Sheridan knelt down beside him and his voice became suddenly hard. “You have been organizing the villagers to smuggle goods into this country, under the direction of Captain Reynold Smith, recently deceased. If you will give us information that will help us apprehend his murderer, the Crown may deal more leniently with you when you are brought to justice.” He paused, spacing his next words, giving them extra weight. “If you do not cooperate in this matter, you will be tried as an accomplice to the captain’s murder. Now, who is the killer?”

  Harry shuddered, and the sinister vision of the investors’ representative rose up before his eyes. Name him, and things might go easier. But he had no name to offer—and no hard proof that the man had anything to do with Foxy’s death. If he accused him and the Crown failed to gain a conviction, Harry knew full well what would become of him.

  “I don’t know ’oo killed Foxy,” he growled, turning his face aside. “I got nothin’ to tell ye.”

  Sheridan grabbed his chin and roughly pulled his head back, staring at him with narrowed eyes. When he spoke, his words were slashing. “What has been done with the boy?”

  The question shook Harry. “Th’ boy? Paddy, ye mean?”

  “Yes, Paddy.” Kipling said grimly. “Where is he?”

  “ ‘Ow th’ devil should I know?” Harry swallowed, trying to pull his head free. “ ‘E’s a boy. Boys go off. Anyway, that one’s too smart to get ‘isself into trouble. ’E’s an imp, ’e is.”

  Sheridan’s eyes were like flint and his grip like a vise. “The boy disappeared early this afternoon on a picnic in the downs with Lady Sheridan and Lady Burne-Jones. We believe he was kidnapped by the man who is behind all of this—the same man who visited you yesterday in the disguise of an antiquarian.”

  Harry stared. “You ... know about that?” Damn! What didn’t they know?

  “This man has more than one identity,” Sheridan said, “and the boy is the only one who can put them together. That’s why he was taken.” He shook Harry’s chin. “Come on, Tudwell. Tell us what you know. If the man kills Patrick, his blood will be on your hands.”

  Harry grimaced. Paddy was far more useful than the other village boys he occasionally employed to deliver coded messages. The boy saw everything and remembered everything he saw. He used his considerable intelligence, his curiosity, his intuition. He was loyal and he was—as far as Harry could tell—without fear. That was why he was so valuable.

  But there was something else, and in that moment, Harry brought himself to acknowledge it. He was fond of Paddy, very fond indeed. Since his wife had gone off to live in the baker’s brick house, Paddy had become very close to him, almost like a ... yes, like a son. Harry thought of the hours they had spent among the downs, riding, exploring, shooting. And he made up his mind.

  “All right,” he said. “Wot d’ye need t’ know?”

  Sheridan’s grip relaxed. “The foreign gentleman who visited you yesterday afternoon. Tell us what you know of him.”

  “I never met ‘im before yesterday,” Harry said, working his lower jaw. “Before that, ’e only dealt wi’ Foxy.”

  “How long did he deal with Foxy?”

  “A couple of years. ‘E’s th’ one ’oo paid for th’ tunnels.”

  “Yes, the tunnels,” Sheridan said. “The new excavations are far more extensive than one might expect, given the small amount of goods you are able to bring in. Why?”

  Harry would have shrugged, had he been able. “It wasn’t my business to ask why,” he said. “It was my business to see that th’ work got done an’ th’ men got paid. Th’ money came in ‘andy, I’ll tell ye. There ain’t much other work around ’ere now.” He paused suspiciously. “Wot’s th’ tunnel work got to do wi’ th’ boy?”

  Sheridan persisted. “The man who paid you to enlarge the tunnels. Did he also hire you to bring in the guns?”

  Harry shook his head from side to side. “I told ye this mornin’. I don’t know nothin’ about any guns.”

  “Paddy took us into the tunnels last night,” Kipling said severely. “We found a box of blasting caps and a case of pistols—a new type. The same type that killed Captain Smith. We think you’re running guns, Tudwell. Who are they for? The Irish?”

  The Irish! Running guns! Harry jerked his head. “I don’t know nothin’ about any guns,” he repeated vehemently. “An’ if I don‘t, nobody else in th’ village does, neither. All we do is unload tuns an’ crates an’ boxes off th’ ships and carry ’em into th’ tunnels. Then we send th’ stuff on its way, quick as we can. Not all of it,” he added hastily. “Some of it stays ’ere, for th’ shops. Most of it goes out, though.”

  Sheridan’s eyes were narrowed, his mouth grim as death. “Do you want to know what I think, Tudwell? I think your village has been had. You are the victims of a grand deception.”

  “Been ‘ad?” Harry demanded angrily. “Deception? Wot th’ devil d’ye mean?”

  “The tunnels you were paid to dig,” Sheridan said, “the smuggling you’ve been paid to do—it’s all a concealment for something else. Something much larger and of much greater consequence.” He turned to look at Kipling. “And it’s not gunrunning, either.”

  “Somethin’ larger?” Harry frowned, remembering the man’s words. Your advancement, Mr. Tudwell, is of more consequence than you can know, and the game is larger than you can think. What had he meant? What did any of this have to do with Paddy’s disappearance? Where was the boy? What had the man done with him? And where, in all this bloody mess, was the bloody truth?

  Kipling was shaking his head. “But if it’s not gunrunning, what can it be, Sheridan? What sort of organization would put this much money and effort into—”

  “You said it yourself, Kipling.” Sheridan’s voice vibrated with a tense excitement. “As an investment, the smuggling makes no economic sense at all. Except for the villagers, nobody is going to profit financially, no
matter how many shiploads of merchandise they bring in here. But what if the smuggling is a cover-up for something larger and far more sinister? What if a foreign government wants a free port on the south coast of England, and they’re willing to buy a village to get it?”

  Harry felt as if he had suddenly stepped into a pit of quicksand. “To buy a village?” he whispered.

  “Wait a minute,” Kipling said. “I don’t understand. A free port? You’re talking about a duty-free port?”

  “I’m talking about a port that can be entered without anyone’s knowledge or control,” Sheridan replied. “Say that one of the great Continental powers—the Kaiser’s government, for instance—wants to infiltrate men and arms into this country. What better strategy might it devise than to embroil an entire village in its scheme? And what better village than one with a proud heritage of smuggling?”

  Harry felt himself go cold. “Ye’re talkin’ about th’ Germans?” he whispered disbelievingly. “Ye’re sayin’ we’ve been dealin’ wi’ th’ bloody Germans?”

  Kipling’s eyes were bright. Two spots of red showed on his cheeks. “By Jove!” he exclaimed. “It’s too incredible for words—but yes, it fits. Willie isn’t running guns. He’s planning a bloody invasion!”

  34

  The female of the species is more deadly than the male.

  —RUDYARD KIPLING “The Female of the Species”

  Lawrence was waiting in the cellar, but from the look on his craggy face, this was not an expedition he wanted to undertake. “Beggin’ yer pardon, milady,” he said, frowning, “but if Lord Charles was ‘ere, ’e wouldn’t permit—”

  “I am sure you’re right, Lawrence,” Kate said briskly, tucking her hair under Charles’s tweed golf cap. “If Lord Charles were here, he would no doubt be very upset with me. In that event, I should consider his objections and then do as I felt right. As I am doing now.”

  Lawrence tried again. “But milady, consider yer ‘ealth! Yer not long out o’ a sickbed an’—”

  “Thank you for your concern,” Kate said, “but I am quite well, and this is work that must be done. A child’s life is in danger, and if I sit around waiting for the men to do something, it may well be lost.” She bent to tuck the leg of Charles’s woolen trousers into her boot. They fit loosely and not very attractively, but that could not be helped. In any event, this was a rescue, not a fashion show. She straightened and put her hands on her hips. “Now, you may agree to go with me, or you may refuse—in which case, I shall ask Amelia to put on your trousers and go with me.” She narrowed her eyes. “So, Lawrence. Which is it to be? You and I, or Amelia and I?”

  “Amelia!” Lawrence’s mouth and hunched shoulders showed strong disapproval. “I wouldn’t ‘low me wife t’ dress up like a man an’ go muckin’ around in a dark tunnel.” His eyes took on a crafty look, and he made one more effort to dissuade her. “Why, there’s prob’ly rats down there. An’ spiders. Big ‘airy spiders.” He used his hands to measure out a spider the size of a washbasin. “Tunnels are ter’ble places, milady. Why, I once read ‘bout a man ’oo broke ’is leg in a tunnel an’ died o’ starvation.”

  “Had he been a woman, he would have packed a sandwich,” Kate said, pulling on her close-fitting leather driving gloves. Over the trousers, she was wearing a heavy woolen fisherman’s sweater and a knit scarf. “Well? Are you going or staying?”

  Lawrence sighed heavily. “I’m goin’. But if Lord Charles was ’ere—”

  “Very good. Then I believe we are ready. Do you have the lantern and the photographic equipment?”

  “Yes’m,” Lawrence said. “But I don’t for th’ life o’ me know wot ye mean t’ do with—”

  “And a weapon of some sort?” Kate was not about to tell him why the photographic equipment was important. She took the lantern from him. She struck a match and lit it.

  Lawrence looked sheepish. “I wanted t’ take a knife from th’ kitchen, but Mrs. Portney was sittin’ right beside th’ drawer. So I found this in th’ garden shed.” He held up a cricket bat.

  “That will serve more effectively than a knife, I believe,” Kate said. “I should much prefer to bash someone over the head than to cut him up.” She held out her hand. “I will take the bat and the lantern and go first. You fetch the rest, and bring up the rear.”

  Lawrence’s mouth fell open. “Milady—”

  Kate seized the bat. “Enough!” she said sharply. “We are wasting time.” She put her hand into her trouser pocket to be sure she had the map. “Now, push those shelves aside. We will leave the door open. When Amelia has seen Mrs. Portney settled in her quarters for the night, she will come down here and keep watch for us.”

  Huffing and puffing and making a great show of difficulty, Lawrence pushed the wine rack to one side. Kate opened the wooden door and stepped through, holding the lantern. Ahead of her, the long rock corridor led into a stifling, smothering blackness. The air had a damp chill, and it smelled stale and musty.

  Kate hesitated, suppressing an involuntary shudder. She would not admit it to Lawrence, but she was terribly frightened, so frightened that she was shaking under her woolen garments and her teeth were beginning to chatter. Lawrence was undoubtedly right about the rats and the spiders, and she could not bear to think what the darkness would be like if their light failed.

  But her terror was not just for herself. Since Patrick had gone missing and she realized that he had been abducted, she had carried a frozen knot of fear in her stomach. The excitement of dressing in Charles’s clothes and going into the tunnel had taken her mind from that fear temporarily, but now it was back. Was Patrick still alive? Was he in the tunnel, or somewhere else? The map showed that the tunnel system was a perplexing maze, a labyrinth of old and new excavations. What if he were here but hidden, bound and gagged, in some secret corner? What if the man who had taken him had already fled, and the boy could not be found? What if—

  She straightened her shoulders resolutely. Patrick could die while she debated with herself. It was time to go forward. And anyway, Beryl Bardwell insisted on seeing the damned tunnel.

  35

  If you wake at midnight, and hear a horse feet,

  Don’t go drawing back the blind, or looking in the street.

  Them that asks no questions isn’t told a lie.

  Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!

  —RUDYARD KIPLING “A Smuggler’s Song”

  Charles rose from his kneeling position. A gust of wind chilled him and a streak of lightning ripped the southern sky, showing skittering clouds. An ominous roll of thunder drummed in the distance.

  “An invasion?” Tudwell shook his head incredulously. “You mean, the man I talked to is a spy? ‘E’s plannin’ t’ send soldiers ’ere?”

  Kipling gave him a stern look. “Aiding and abetting a foreign power—that’s treason, you know. And two of the Queen’s coast guards are dead. When this comes out, Harry, you’ll be branded for a traitor.”

  “Treason!” Tudwell squeaked. His eyes were like round silver coins. “No! I swear on my mother’s grave! I didn’t know ‘e was a spy! I didn’t know nothin’ about soldiers or guns! I ain’t never ’eard a whisper of an invasion! I can’t... I never... I—” His mouth began to flap and his words disintegrated into whimpers.

  “We’re wasting time,” Charles said. “We have to find the foreigner. Where is the ship putting in?”

  Tudwell was struggling desperately to get command of himself. “Trunky an’ John—they ... they signaled th’ ship t’ put in at Saltdean, a quarter mile to th’ east of ‘ere. But th’ foreigner—’e’s not with ’em.”

  Charles regarded him suspiciously. “How do you know?”

  “Because that wasn’t part of ‘is plan.” Tudwell licked his lips. “ ‘E thought th’ ship was comin’ in ‘ere, ye see. Won’t ’e be bloody surprised when ‘e figures out that it’s ’eaded east.”

  “Where is he?” Kipling asked.

  “Cut me loos
e, an’ I’ll tell ye,” Tudwell cried. Charles jerked Tudwell to his feet, pulled out his pocket knife, and slashed the cord that held the man’s wrists. “Tell,” he snapped, and pushed the point of the knife into Tudwell’s gut.

  “Ow!” Tudwell cringed from the knife point. “ ‘E’s gone t’ th’ Gap.”

  “The Gap?” Kipling asked, surprised. The lantern glinted off his gold-rimmed glasses. “Why would he go there?”

  Tudwell was babbling again. “T’ get ‘is travelin’ case, ye see. ’E sent it t’ me this afternoon, with instructions t’ lock it in one o’ th’ bathin’ machines. ‘E also said t’ pull up a skiff on th’ beach, so I reckon ’e’s plannin’ t’ row out t’ th’ ship.” He rolled his eyes, and the whites showed. “Ye don’t think ‘e’d take th’ boy with ’im, do ye?”

  Kipling picked up the lantern and turned away. “Come on, Sheridan. There’s no time to lose!”

  Tudwell picked up his own lantern and took several unsteady steps after Kipling. Charles put his hand on the man’s shoulder and swung him around. “One more thing, Tudwell,” he said grimly. “Mr. Kipling and I are both armed. If either of us even suspects a double-cross, you’re a dead man. Is that quite clear?”

  “Clear,” Tudwell gasped. “I’m with ye. I swear!”

  “Right,” Charles said. “Come on, then.”

  The three of them started downhill toward the town at a brisk trot. In just over five minutes, they were at the intersection of the coast road and the High Street, across from the White Horse, which showed only one light in the very back of the building. They paused to catch their breath, then turned left toward the Gap.