Smuggler's Moon sjf-8

by Bruce Alexander

  “It was a ditch, yes sir.”

  “Sometimes I fear that I attempt too much. Perhaps I should accept the limitations my blindness has put upon me.”

  “Ah, do not say that, sir. If you was to give in to your fate, there’s a certain one-armed constable might be forced to give in to his.”

  Sir John chuckled. ”Well, I would not wish to encourage that-no, certainly not.”

  Sir John had accepted my help in seeing him back to the coach. Yet without notice, he stopped of a sudden and said to me, ”Jeremy, I have something to discuss with Mr.

  Perkins. Would you then go to the coach and tell all that we shall be with them in just a few moments’ time?”

  Having no choice in the matter, I agreed, though I saw little need for such secrecy. Ultimately, their conversation lasted many more moments than a few and became at one point quite heated before it was done. When at last they returned to the coach, Sir John called up to the driver and asked that he stop when the town of Deal came into view. Only then did he ascend to the coach’s interior, bang upon the ceiling, and set us into motion once again.

  “Jeremy,” said he, ”you serve as treasurer on this expedition. Give Mr. Perkins a few pounds. How much would you be needing, constable?”

  “Oh, a pound or two. Two pounds should be more than enough.”

  “Then give him three.”

  I counted out the amount and handed it over.

  “Mr. Perkins will be going out alone to do some listening for us. It will be to you that he reports if indeed he has anything to report. Where might you two best meet?”

  “There is an inn on High Street, name of the Good King George,” said Mr. Perkins. ”Suppose we get together there about noon each day and have us an ale, and I’ll tell you what I know. How does that strike you?”

  “Why, I’m thirsty already.”

  “Enough of that, you two. We’ll-”

  Sir John, interrupted by the sudden halt of the coach, gave a firm nod. ”God bless you, sir,” said he to the constable. ”And remember well what I told you.”

  “Goodbye, all.” And so saying, Mr. Perkins threw open the door and jumped from the coach. I pulled the door shut behind him, took his wave through the window and returned it.

  The magistrate said nothing during the rest of the trip. That left it to me to puzzle out what he had discussed with Mr. Perkins there in the road. It seemed likely that Sir John had asked him to serve as his spy. After all, Mr. Perkins was, if not well known in Deal, at least remembered. He had known his way round the owling trade and been forcibly enlisted into the Army. The last any of the townsmen had seen of him, he was no doubt being led away in chains by the recruiting sergeant and his party. Those who did recall him would quite naturally assume that he had lost his arm in military service. They would be willing to answer any of the questions he might put to them. He would be perfect in such a role.

  Yet having formed that notion, I dismissed it immediately. There was something in it which rang false for both men, yet I could not determine what it was for either. Ah well, perhaps Perkins would be more forthcoming than Sir John when I met him next midday.

  But for now, here was Deal before me. As I stared out the window at the shops along Broad Street and at those we passed by, I realized how much more prosperous-looking was the picture before me than would have been a tableau from any comparable section of London. The people were better dressed; they walked with a more confident step. The shop windows were filled with goods of a quality that only the grandest shops in lower St. James Street might carry. The smuggling trade may have been illegal, but it had certainly brought good times to Deal.

  Looking away from the coach window for a moment, I happened to catch Clarissa’s eye. She was obviously most impressed by what she saw all round us. Her eyes were wide with excitement.

  “Why, Deal is near as grand as Bath!” said she. ”Had you ever imagined it so?”

  I admitted I had not. But then, as we came to the bottom of Broad Street, the driver turned the team right. And there, through the window, off to our left, was a great body of water.

  ”Oh, there it is,” said Clarissa,”-the sea, the ocean, the English Channel.”

  “And there beyond it,” said I, ”is France. Can you see it?”

  She studied the horizon carefully. ”I … I don’t know. I think I can. How far is it?”

  Before I could respond, Sir John spoke up: ‘Thirty-five miles, give or take a mile or two.”

  “So close?” Clarissa exclaimed. ”Why, we’re nearer to France than we are to London.”

  “Indeed we are,” said he.

  The driver reined the horses to a halt. I heard him call out, asking another for directions to the residence of Sir Simon Grenville. The response I heard not quite so clearly, but in a moment more we were off. We drove up a street, and in less than a mile the street became a road, and so on until we were back into the country. Ever upward we went by easy degrees, so that when at last we turned off the road and into a driveway, we must have been a few hundred feet above the town and the sea. We were so long on the way that I began to suppose that we had taken some secondary road that led still farther upward. But not so, for the team of four slowed at the driver’s direction. I heard the brake applied. We came to a halt just at the door of a manor house, which had been added onto so often and grandly that it had reached the proportions of a small castle.

  And yet it had no grand entrance, no portico with which to impress the visiting aristocracy and nobility; perhaps hereabouts Sir Simon was the only one of his class in residence; perhaps then Deal was his fiefdom.

  As these thoughts did thus flash through my brain, a man emerged to meet us and, leaving the door symbolically open behind him, to bid us welcome. Among the landed in the country, a great host of house servants seems to be considered something of an embarrassment. They keep, rather, a number of retainers who are capable of duplicating the work of the rest. The man who came out to greet us was one of these and should not be thought of as a butler. No, indeed, he was no butler, for he lacked the degree of coldness any proper London butler would surely have had. He was simply a Kent fellow of middle years, big and strong-a proper countryman-and he had come out to assure us that we were expected but most of all that we were welcome.

  He managed to convey that just by stepping out upon the little porch that was raised a step or two above the ground. He chuckled to himself as he bowed and approached the door of the coach and threw it open.

  “Here, miss, give me your hand, and I’ll help you down.”

  Clarissa took advantage of the offer and stepped down very lightly indeed. Sir John was next: he did not attempt to jump, as was his wont, but accepted the proffered hand with good grace and hopped down quite nimbly. Only I, who was last of all, displayed a certain clumsiness in exiting the coach; my heel caught in the step, and had the jolly retainer not been there to catch me, I should have tumbled face-first into the dust of the driveway.

  “Hi, watch it there, my lad. I’d not want to present you to the master with a broken head. Steady as she goes, eh?”

  He pulled himself to his full height, put a hand atop his protruding belly, as if to hide it from sight, then spoke forth in the manner of one who had memorized a piece in order to have it down precisely.

  “My master, Simon Grenville, Baronet, was unavoidably called away this day. He deeply regrets not being present to welcome you himself, but he assures you that his household staff will do all that they can to make you comfortable in your rooms until dinner, at which time he will join you.”

  “And the horses? Our driver and coachman?” asked Sir John.

  ”If they will but drive round the house to the stable, sir, the staff there will do all that needs be done for the horses. The driver and coachman will be taken care of by us in the house, you may be sure.”

  “And one last question: How may we call you?”

  “Will Fowler, sir, and my family has been in service to the G
renvilles for three generations. Now, if you will step this way, please?”

  And so it was settled. We were assured that there would be time for a nap before dinner, and that we would be knocked up in time to dress.

  “I am grateful for that,” said Sir John to me once we were alone in the room we shared. ”I had briefly entertained the notion of visiting the magistrate. Yet when a man is as bone-weary as I from travel, all he can do is seek rest.”

  After we woke and dressed, we were ushered in to the large formal dining room where we found a tall and rather handsome man awaiting us, obviously our host, Sir Simon Grenville. I saw no sign of a hostess-a Lady Grenville-and I wondered at that, but Sir Simon made no immediate explanation, and I thought perhaps there was no Lady Grenville. We took our places, with Sir John at his right, of course, and the longest meal of my life began. There was course after course. Plates of various foods appeared and vanished before me, apparently of their own power-I always seemed to be looking the other way when the server whisked one plate away and put another in its place. And with each course there was a new bottle of wine of a different color and a different flavor put before us. That all this was done according to some intricate plan, and not simply as a demonstration of great abundance, I learned as Sir Simon himself explained his situation to us.

  “You will note,” said he, ”that I am alone here. Lady Grenville is on the other side,” he made a vague gesture toward the Channel, ”visiting her family. She is, as you may gather, French. And being French, she brought with her into our happy marriage, a French cook; indeed the finest French cook who ever came to these shores, or so he keeps declaring. His name is Jacques, you see, and Jacques feels unused and unappreciated because we do not often have occasions here in our sleepy little corner of England to make full use of his talents. Especially does he enjoy showing them off to my wife, for she is French, and only the French can fully appreciate their cuisine. Yet she has been away a considerable length of time due to an illness in the family. This is, in fact, the first occasion on which he has prepared a full-course dinner in the grand style in her absence. Ordinarily, that might seem reason to caution you as to its quality. Nevertheless, first of all, Jacques has not been put to the test for far too long, and he has been eager to prove himself. And secondly, say I in prideful mock-humility, I believe his work speaks for itself.”

  “Indeed it does,” said Sir John, ”oh, indeed so.”

  Had there been any need to do so, I might have raised my voice to second Sir John, for while I commented a moment ago upon the great abundance of the food, it should be said that it tasted remarkably well. It was perhaps a bit too delicately spiced for one, like me, who sought grosser gustatory satisfactions. Which is to say, I knew that the turbot, the quail, and the lamb that were put before me in their diverse sauces were in every way exceptional, yet I still preferred Annie’s well-garlicked beef stew.

  “Remarkable coincidence,” said Sir John.

  “Oh? What is that, sir?” queried our host.

  “That your wife should be away visiting an ill member of her family. So also is my own dear wife. Which of her relations is sick?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Which family member? Brother? Sister …?”

  “Oh, well, her mother.”

  “You see? Remarkable coincidence. It is her mother also, whose illness has occasioned my wife’s visit. Remarkable.”

  Sir Simon, for some reason, seemed disturbed by this exchange. He signaled the wine server to refill the glasses. Glancing uneasily at Clarissa, who sat next me, I wondered how much more she should or could drink of the wine. It was not that I feared that she would become boisterous or rude, yet she might become talkative. And the conversationalists at this table were to be Sir Simon and Sir John-and no others. Surely she realized that. Clarissa took a sip from the newly refilled glass, then turned to me with a lazy smile upon her face. Her eyes, I noted, were a bit opaque.

  “I do regret Marie-Hélène’s absence now, at the time of your visit,” said Sir Simon, resuming their talk. ”Lady Grenville, that is. She would be the ideal guide through this old house. She knows its history better than I.”

  “How old is it?” Sir John asked, showing little more than polite interest.

  “Oh … let me see. The core of the house is quite old-fourteen-something. Marie-Hélène would have it exact.”

  “That is indeed old.”

  “There have been three major additions since then. It is one of those old houses which simply grew of its own volition. Why, it even has a ghost or two.”

  This was simply too much for Clarissa. Her eyes brightened. ”A ghost!” She fair shouted it out. ”Oooh! Tell us about it.” And then: ”Ow-Jeremy!”

  That last was her response to the kick I gave her in the ankle. As I administered it, I leaned close and whispered, ”Do you wish to have us eating with the servants?”

  Lips pursed, she nodded primly, indicating that she understood and would cooperate.

  Sir Simon Grenville, on the other hand, seemed to take no notice of the breach of etiquette. He smiled blandly at Clarissa and shrugged rather grandly. ”The truth is, alas, I know not much to tell. It, or perhaps he, is said to be the ghost of the first Grenville Baronet, who would have been-let me see now-my great-grandfather, no less.”

  “And how does this restless spirit make himself known?” asked Sir John.

  “Oh, by rambling about the house, making a good deal of noise and generally creating havoc.”

  “Havoc, is it? And how does he do that?”

  “Why, by allowing himself to be seen from time to time. He looks rather different from me. His is a face that seems to run in the family. My father was quite like him. We’ve a portrait of him in the library. He appears in these visible visitations in dress of the last century, and there does seem to be something-though I risk his wrath to say it-rather evil about him, his expression, the look in his eyes, the rather frightening smile he offers the viewer.”

  “I can only gather,” said Sir John, ”that you yourself have seen this apparition on at least one occasion.”

  “Yes,” said he, ”I have, and on more than one occasion.” Sir Simon had grown most serious of a sudden. Any hint of jocularity had vanished from his manner. ”And each time I have counted myself lucky to survive unscathed.”

  “Why so? Is this spirit so dangerous?”

  “Dangerous enough. His appearance, which is to say, his visible manifestation, usually means that someone in or around this house … will die, and die most horribly, within the next week or so.”

  There was a sudden and quite audible intake of breath next me. It was Clarissa, of course, so overcome by Sir Simon’s lurid tale that she could but gasp for air; indeed she was truly afrighted.

  Yet Sir John, having listened, primed his host with questions and comments through the recital, and in short, done all that a good guest might be expected to do, had finally had quite enough of ghosts, spirits, and apparitions.

  “If you will forgive me, Sir Simon,” said he, ”I find all such tales naught but poppycock. Naturally, they frighten children like Clarissa, who deep down rather likes to be frightened. But frankly, it would take a great deal to convince me of their validity.”

  “What, specifically, would it take?”

  “Well, since I am incapable of accepting the proof offered me by my eyes, I would have to be convinced by one or more of the other four senses.”

  “Did I mention the smell which comes with his appearance?”

  “No sir, you did not.”

  “When he appears, and sometimes only when he is about and wishes to make his presence known, there is a rather overpowering smell of brimstone about.”

  “Brimstone?” Sir John puzzled that about in his head for a moment or two. ”You mean sulphur?”

  “That is what some call it today, yes.”

  “It is sulphur, is it not, which gives off the foul odor of rotting eggs? It can be quite overwhelming.”


  “Yes, that’s it!” said Sir Simon in sudden excitement. ”Rotting eggs-a terrible smell! That’s it exactly!”

  Sir John began laughing quite abruptly. He threw back his head and let it peal forth from him in great waves of merriment. I had not the slightest notion what had, of a sudden, struck him as so terribly funny.

  Nor was I the only one. Sir Simon Grenville recoiled slightly from his guest as he looked upon him in utter bafflement. Then did the baffled expression turn to one of slight though open annoyance. At last, when Sir John’s laughter had subsided, he risked a query.

  “What, praytell, did strike you as so amusing, sir?”

  ‘“Twas but a passing thought which tickled my fancy.” And having gone only so far, he began snickering again. ”It came to me that yours may be the only house in the realm that is haunted by a farting ghost.” Then, having said it, he was once again beset by a laughing fit of a length and intensity quite like the last.

  Thereafter the table remained rather quiet for quite some time.

  For one unused to drinking wine of any kind, Clarissa did rather well drinking wines of every kind. In her own way, she kept up until the dessert course. It was not the piece of gateau, dripping with sweet sauce, that did her in. No, it was the accompanying sweet white wine from faraway Hungary which did finally seal her fate. She sipped it once in a manner most ladylike, then took nearly half a glass in a gulp. She replaced the glass upon the table, rested her chin upon her chest, and began snoring quite loudly.

  It continued thus for less than a minute. Sir John did then become uncomfortably aware of the persistent drone.

  “My ears tell me,” said he, ”that Clarissa has been summoned off to sleep. The poor child must be terribly weary. Perhaps we had best cut the evening a bit short and take her up to bed.”

  “Oh, do stay a bit longer, Sir John,” urged the host. ”We’ve matters to discuss, those which brought you here, matters that we have not even touched upon.”