by Dawn Harris
‘You cannot possibly know that.’
‘True,’ he admitted with a grin. ‘But I am fairly sure. As a sailor I am accustomed to reading the weather.’
‘Oh,’ I said in surprise, unaware he had an interest in sailing. ‘What kind of a yacht do you have?’
‘A very small one.’
‘Is it capable of crossing the channel?’
‘It is.’ And he murmured provocatively, ‘Should you have a desire to go there.’
I retorted with some severity, ‘That is not what I meant, as you very well know.’
‘No, I was afraid of that.’ And he deliberately heaved a sorrowful sigh.
I didn’t go straight home. Fancying a longer ride, I went past Westfleet up onto Luckton Down. Strangely enough it didn’t rain for half an hour, as Mr Reevers had prophesied, but soon after I was caught in a succession of heavy showers, returning home soaked to the skin. Unfortunately, I entered the house just as my aunt was crossing the hall, and had to endure a severe scold on my foolishness in staying out in the rain, especially with an injured shoulder.
My aunt’s moods were very up and down these days. On her birthday trip to Allum Bay, she had seemed almost carefree. But every time she read of yet another gruesome atrocity in France, she sank into despair, convinced she would never see my uncle again. I tried to be patient, all too conscious of what she was going through, and of my own guilt at not having told her my uncle was in prison.
I’d promised Giles to wait a week before doing so, in case news arrived from his friends in Normandy, and tomorrow that time would be up. But the strain of this enforced wait, and my awareness of the distress it would cause when I did speak, meant my patience was at a particularly low ebb.
Thus, when at dinner my aunt again condemned my foolishness in getting soaked, warning that she knew of at least three people who had ended up in the churchyard through riding in the rain, I completely lost my temper.
‘In that case Aunt, if I should contract an inflammation of the lungs and be carried off, you will have the satisfaction of knowing you were right. And you may have your warning carved on my tombstone.’
Lucie, striving to keep a straight face, quickly applied herself to a dish of apple compote, while my aunt, in opening her mouth to speak, caught her breath and choked on the piece of peeled pear she was swallowing. At which moment Jeffel unexpectedly entered the room, and Aunt Thirza, determined to maintain her usual composure in front of him, turned an interesting shade of puce.
Jeffel, who appeared not to notice, informed me, ‘Mr Arnold has called, my lady. He asks if you could spare him a few minutes.’
‘What, now? At this time?’
‘Yes, my lady. I believe it is a matter of some importance.’
Aunt Thirza, recovering from her encounter with the pear, ordered, ‘Tell him we’re at dinner, Jeffel.’
Jeffel inclined his head respectfully, but addressed his response to me. ‘I did inform Mr Arnold you were at dinner my lady, but he asked me to say he believes you would wish to see him.’
‘In that case, kindly inform Mr Arnold I shall be with him directly.’ Jeffel bowed and left the room, and I put my napkin on the table, saying, ‘You must excuse me, I’m afraid.’
Over the years, I could recall one or two highly distinguished visitors whom Jeffel had kept waiting while we finished dinner. Mr Arnold, however, was not a man to waste my time, or his, on a trivial matter, and Jeffel, who missed nothing that went on at Westfleet, had judged I would wish to see him. I crossed the hall in some apprehension, wondering what could have happened, for he would not have considered even the arrest of Smith a matter of great urgency.
When I entered the library, Mr Arnold rose from his chair, bowed and greeted me with an abject apology for interrupting my dinner. He wore breeches, a neat, serviceable riding coat, and mud spattered boots. Assuring him I had finished my meal, I urged him to be seated.
He took a seat, but refused any offer of refreshment. ‘I mustn’t stay, Lady Drusilla. But I knew you would wish to see this.’ Taking a small box from his pocket, he handed it to me.
Opening the box, I gasped, for the item inside was extremely well known to me. A beautiful ring, consisting of a large square emerald surrounded by diamonds, which I had not expected to see again. Thomas had worn the Saxborough ring ever since the death of his father, but it hadn’t been on his finger when his body was found, and like everyone else, I had thought it lost in the sea.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
‘Where did you find it?’ I whispered, looking up at him.
‘On the body of a man taken up from Dittistone Bay this morning.’
I suddenly felt very breathless. ‘Do you know who he was?’
‘A free trader, ma’am. French by his clothes. Likely he fell overboard in that squall last night. In foul weather, on a pitch black night, he’d have very little chance of being picked up again.’
‘No,’ I agreed. ‘But the ring? Where was it?’
‘On a particularly stout chain round his neck, hidden under his thick clothing.’ He added, ‘One of the revenue boats found him in the cave.’ The cliffs at Dittistone were of chalk, and the cave, though not large at its entrance, ran back a long way, and could only be investigated at low water. ‘They got him out just before noon, discovered the ring, and brought the body back to Cowes.’
‘I see.’ Taking the ring out of the box, I gazed at it, mesmerized, conscious only that this changed everything. Here, at long last, was real evidence. Proof that Thomas and Tom had been murdered. I looked up and said quietly, ‘The ring must have been stolen before Thomas went into the water.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed, shaking his head in sorrow. ‘I’ve thought of nothing else since I left Cowes. I imagine the yacht was boarded by a gang of French smugglers, the man found today being one of them.’
‘If they only wanted the ring, why didn’t they just take it? Why murder two innocent people?’
He gave a little shrug of helplessness. ‘The French are a law unto themselves these days, ma’am. With the Saxboroughs being members of the class the revolutionaries are busy eliminating, I fear they simply threw Thomas and his son overboard.’
I closed my eyes momentarily, trying not to think of what Thomas and Tom must have endured. Putting the ring back into the box, I returned it to him. ‘I should like to see this man.’
His brows flew up in horror. ‘Ma’am, I—’
‘I must know who he is. If-----’
‘Forgive me, but it would serve no useful purpose.’ He put the box carefully into his pocket, hesitating a little before saying, ‘To be blunt, he suffered such a severe buffeting against the walls of the cave last night I doubt his own mother would recognise him now.’
I groaned. Nothing in this business was easy. ‘Surely, there must be something that would identify him.’
‘I found nothing, I’m afraid, ma’am.’
Collecting my wits together, I asked, ‘You have seen him yourself?’ He inclined his head and looked down at his hands. ‘Did he have anything in his pockets?’
‘A small number of French coins.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘Not a thing, ma’am. I made a thorough search.’
‘Yes, of course.’ I did not doubt it.
‘He was of medium height and build, with black hair. His clothes and boots were what any French fisherman or smuggler might wear. Dr. Redding, who examined him, says his death was caused by drowning.’
So this man had stolen Thomas’s ring, put it on a strong, thick chain, and kept it hidden, knowing he must wait until it was safe to sell it. A man who knew how to bide his time, but who had been caught out by a squall and lost his life. It was, I supposed, justice of a kind.
When I thanked Mr Arnold for his frankness, he said, ‘There is one other thing, ma’am. Obviously I recognised the ring, but I had to ask Mrs Saxborough to confirm it officially. In fact, I have just come from Ledstone. She understood that the ring, bein
g evidence, could not be returned to the family yet.’ He hesitated. ‘But I must confess to you ma’am, she did not realise the true significance of this discovery. She took it to be a simple matter of theft, and----’ He ran a finger round the inside of his collar. ‘You will think me a coward ma’am, and rightly so, but I hadn’t the heart to enlighten her, not after all she has suffered this year. I’d hoped Vincent Saxborough would be there, but he and his son are enjoying a convivial evening with friends in Ventnor. Mr Reevers was also out, and as Mrs Saxborough does not find him agreeable, perhaps he’s not the best person to—’ He broke off awkwardly, then said, ‘The situation must be explained to her. I have no right to ask it of you ma’am, but--------’ His expression was one of hopeful entreaty. He wasn’t a man to shirk his duty, but coping with a distraught woman shedding copious tears was another matter entirely.
‘I’ll ride over this evening, Mr Arnold.’
‘I am most grateful,’ he said, his brow clearing, and stood up to take his leave, patting his pocket to make sure the ring was still there.
After Mr Arnold had left, I returned to the dining room and told my aunt and cousin the devastating news. They stared at me dumbfounded, Lucie turning so white I thought she was going to faint. Crossing to the sideboard, I poured a little brandy into a glass, which she took with shaking hands, sipping it slowly, until her colour began to return.
My aunt, herself rather pale, became concerned over Marguerite’s reaction to the appalling news, and when I repeated what Mr Arnold had said, she nodded. ‘Yes. She will listen to you, Drusilla.’ She looked out of the window at the sky. ‘I should go before it rains again.’ Going up to my bedchamber, I rang for my maid, who packed an overnight bag, while I changed into a riding habit.
I took Mudd with me, and told him about the ring. ‘John, could Mr Thomas have stumbled on some French smugglers picking up illegal goods?’
‘No-one worries about smugglers, my lady.’
‘French spies then. Or revolutionaries?’
‘You don’t believe that no more than I do, my lady.’
His face was grave and troubled. ‘No, you’re right. I don’t.’ But father had taught me to consider every possibility, however remote, and I wanted to believe Thomas had seen something he shouldn’t; something utterly unconnected with his family, and had been murdered as a result. But Mudd was right; in my heart, I knew that wasn’t what had happened. If Thomas had come across smugglers going about their business, he would have bought a keg of brandy off them. He had been very partial to brandy.
So, why had they been killed? Certainly not for a ring that could be easily snatched from Thomas’s finger. There had been no signs of violence on the bodies, yet Thomas and Tom, both strong swimmers, had drowned on a calm warm night in late July. I did not want to think about how that had been achieved.
Who had wanted to make murder look like an accident? No gang of French smugglers would go to that much trouble. But if I could find the name of the dead smuggler, it would lead me to the gang he worked with, and eventually, to the truth. Full of hope, I said, ‘We’ll go by way of Hokewell, John. I must speak to Jackson.’ If anyone could discover the identity of the dead smuggler it was another smuggler.
I found Jackson tending his garden, and when I explained what I wanted, he asked respectfully if the reward Giles had offered still stood. ‘It does,’ I promised, knowing it was what Giles would wish. ‘And I’ll double it if you give me the names of every man in that gang.’ I asked if it would be difficult, what with the war and everything, but he shook his head.
‘French free traders don’t care about the war, my lady, or the revolution. They’re only interested in money. I’ll do my best, I can promise you that. I might cheat the government out of a bit of tax, but I don’t hold with killing. Mr Thomas was a proper gentleman, and there was no finer boy on the Island than Master Tom.’
When I reached Ledstone, I saw Marguerite considered the appearance of the ring as good news. ‘Now Giles will wear it, like all his ancestors. Of course, I gave Mr Arnold a sum of money for the man who found it. If he hadn’t spotted the ring, it would have been buried with the man, and lost for ever.’
Dittistone churchyard was the last resting place of men from many distant places, whose ships foundered on the underwater ledge. Or when, as last night, a smuggler had fallen overboard and drowned. It was common enough, and soon forgotten. I sat listening to her chatter, understanding Mr Arnold’s difficulties all too well. Taking a deep breath, I explained how the smuggler must have acquired the ring.
She stared at me, her voice rising in alarm, ‘Are you saying Thomas and young Tom were murdered because of the ring?’ She didn’t want to face the truth, and who could blame her. Tears clung precariously to her eyelashes, her shawl clutched tightly across her bosom.
‘It is worth a great deal of money,’ I pointed out, as if agreeing with her conclusion.
Her bottom lip wobbled, but even then she interpreted it in her own way. ‘At least it will stop those silly rumours about Giles. The smugglers he knows are English, not French.’ Her tone implying that no-one in their right senses had anything to do with the French. Luckily she had never been a deep thinker, but I was thankful Giles had arranged for Jacob to bring his message to Westfleet. Jacob wasn’t French, but Marguerite would still be greatly agitated if a fearsome looking smuggler walked up the drive at Ledstone.
As the reality of the murders sank in, she begged me not to leave her alone at Ledstone that night. I thought of Mr Reevers, Vincent and Piers, and the servants in the house, but agreed without hesitation, thankful I’d brought my night attire with me.
I said, ‘There’s bound to be an official investigation.’
‘Then Giles must come home at once.’ This was a conclusion I had also come to. As head of the Saxborough family, his place was here. ‘Leatherbarrow must go to London tonight, Drusilla. Will you write a letter explaining? Giles will listen to you.’
I agreed willingly, but crossing to my godmother’s writing desk, a thought struck me. ‘I had better warn Leatherbarrow first---’
‘Why?’ she demanded petulantly. ‘He’ll do as he’s told.’
‘Yes, of course he will, but he’ll need the yacht, and I don’t know the state of the tide. If I speak to him now, he can make his preparations while I write the letter.’
‘Oh very well,’ she said, reaching for the bell-rope.
‘No, don’t ring. I’ll go down to the stables myself. I want a word with Mudd too.’
‘All right, but don’t be long. I shan’t have a moment’s peace until Giles is safely home again.’
Walking down to the stables, I came across Mudd first. He had just finished grooming Orlando, and I sent him to inform my aunt I wouldn’t be home tonight. ‘Come back in the morning, John. After breakfast will do. There’s no hurry.’
‘Very good, my lady.’
He went to saddle his horse, and walking on I found Leatherbarrow brushing mud off the legs of one of Giles’s hacks. On seeing me, he stood upright and touched his cap, smiling. ‘Good evening, my lady. The weather’s------’
I interrupted, ‘Leatherbarrow, how soon can you leave for London? Mrs Saxborough has a urgent letter for Mr Giles.’
Blinking, he stared at me fixedly for a moment. He still held the brush he’d been using, and without speaking, he put it down very slowly, as if thinking. Calling to a couple of stable lads, he told them to continue with the grooming.
He still did not answer me, and I presumed he was working out when the tide would be suitable. But on turning to me again his face bore an impassive expression, of the kind I did not associate with Leatherbarrow. Whatever was troubling him, it wasn’t the state of the tide.
I lifted an eyebrow in inquiry, and he said quietly, ‘May I show you the new colt, my lady?’ Assuming he wished to speak to me alone, I walked across to the paddock with him, well out of earshot of the grooms and stable boys.
As I dutifully admired the
colt, I said, ‘Out with it, Leatherbarrow. Is there something wrong with the yacht?’
‘No, my lady.’ He hesitated. ‘May I respectfully ask if this letter is really urgent?’
Obviously he suspected this was one of my godmother’s fancies, but that still didn’t explain his reluctance to obey orders. ‘Yes, it is,’ I replied. ‘In fact, I mean to write it myself.’ I told him why, explaining how the Saxborough ring had been found.
Staring at me in horror, he reached out to the paddock rail, as if to steady himself. ‘But why -- why did the Frenchies have to kill them?’
‘I don’t know why, Leatherbarrow. I wish I did. But the news will be all round the Island soon, and Mr Giles cannot stay in London when two members of his family have been murdered. His place, as head of the family, is here. You do see why he must come home at once.’
‘Yes, my lady, I do.’ He shifted from one foot to the other, and turned a troubled face to me. ‘The problem is, my lady, Mr Giles isn’t in London.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
For several seconds I was speechless. ‘What do you mean, he’s not in London?’ The unsteadiness in my voice clear even to my own ears. ‘Where is he, Leatherbarrow?’
Avoiding my eyes, he answered awkwardly. ‘I don’t rightly know, my lady.’ This I did not believe. If anyone knew where he was, that person was his groom. Leatherbarrow had been entrusted with the task of keeping him safe, ever since the five year old Giles had been caught clambering onto the back of his father’s favourite horse.
Leatherbarrow was a tall man, and stronger than his wiry frame suggested, having once carried his young charge two miles home after a fall from a tree had severely twisted Giles’s knee. He was a dependable and discreet servant; so discreet, that if he had known where Giles was, he would have delivered the letter without mentioning Giles wasn’t in London.
The light was fading fast, and the grooms and stable lads returning to their quarters cast no more than a cursory glance in the direction of the paddock.
‘You must have some idea, Leatherbarrow.’
