Smuggler's Moon sjf-8

by Bruce Alexander

  “Was there any safe way to engage in the smuggling trade? To be safe-that is, from detection and prosecution? Why yes, if he were the magistrate of Deal, then he would certainly be safe. The only difficulty there was that Deal had a magistrate, old Mr. Kemp, and he could not be persuaded to step down. And so, Sir Simon had him murdered. You know how it was done, Jeremy: Sir Simon appeared at the magistrate’s window in the middle of the night, persuaded him to open the door that they might talk, and had him shot down before his very eyes. However, just as he was preparing himself for the job, the Lord Chief Justice, a friend of his father’s to whom he owed more than one favor, asked Sir Simon if he would use his influence to seat young Albert Sarton as magistrate in Deal. He did not feel that he could deny Lord Mansfield; and after all, he could no doubt use one so young as Sarton to achieve his own ends-or so he thought. We know a good deal of this from Mr. Eccles, of course, whose friendship he had cultivated; the rest is reasonable speculation.

  “There was one more obstacle to his domination of the smuggling trade, and that was the small gangs in and about this part of the Kent shore. If he could not persuade them to join him and accept his direction, then he would have to eliminate them. This process began with the hiring of one gang, which he housed right there upon his estate, and with the apprehension of another, the single occasion whereon he was able to ‘use’ Mr. Sarton. He made some successful runs from France-or rather his wife had done so, for it was she who oversaw the delivery of the goods to England-and a proper sailor she is, or so I’ve been told. In any case, there were smuggled goods of all sorts stored in a chalk mine on the Grenville estate. One night, one of the roughest of the gangs came in stealth to the estate, murdered the guard who had been posted at the mine, and escaped with a wagonload of goods to dispose of in London. They should have stayed in London, for when they returned, he had them killed.

  “That was on that single night when so much blood was spilled. In addition to the three whom you found, there was Mr. Sarton, whom we can now be certain was murdered in the same way his predecessor had been, and the constable who was guarding the captives taken down there on the beach. The three on the beach were killed as an example to all the rest of the smugglers in the region of Deal; thereafter he would have had no difficulty enlisting the remainder. Mr. Sarton was murdered because he had proven himself altogether too independent and had had the temerity to order an operation which intercepted a specially ordered shipment of perfume; Sir Simon took it as an insult, too, that Lady Grenville had, in the course of the operation, herself been shot at. You do recall, don’t you, Jeremy, that Mr. Perkins said he believed that one of the two passengers in the boat which escaped was wearing skirts? He was quite right. She was-though I understand that she does not always do so. And ah yes, the poor fellow, who was killed at the inn guarding the prisoners, and his mate, who was badly wounded-just another demonstration by Sir Simon of his power: his men were rescued and their captors shot down. This was meant as a lesson to all. And all the rest of the story I’m sure you know as well as I-indeed, perhaps better.”

  “Better? Oh, I doubt that, sir,” said I.

  “But you took an active part in those events, played your role well, and there is nothing like the participant’s knowledge,” said he rather plaintively. ”But perhaps you have some questions …”

  “Oh, I have many.”

  “Well,” said he with a sigh, ”I’m not sure that I’ll be able to answer many. Why not ask me two or three that plague you most?”

  “All right,” said I. ”When did you first suspect Sir Simon?”

  “Almost from the very first. He could not satisfactorily account for his sudden change-nay, reversal-of opinion with regard to Mr. Sarton. He was completely for him, then of a sudden, he was completely against him.”

  “Was Mr. Eccles his collaborator, or simply his dupe?”

  “From all I can ascertain-and believe me, I have tried-Eccles was simply his dupe.”

  “I noted,” said I, ”that Sir Simon was bound over to be tried for the murder of Albert Sarton, with a lesser charge of smuggling. Can murder be proven?”

  “Oh, it can be proven. I have a witness.” I would then have pressed him for the answers to more such questions, but with a wave of his hand he silenced me. ”Let that be all,” said he. ”The answers to the rest you may have tomorrow night.”

  “What then?”

  “Molly has asked us to what she, in her way, calls a victory feast. Let it be called whatever she wishes. It will be a proper celebration, and the celebrants will be those, like you, who took an active part in the doings of the last couple of nights.”

  It was indeed so. With the exception of Lieutenant Tabor and his men, all who had played some part were present. And why were they not? I put the question later to Sir John, and he explained that he felt the lieutenant had not taken a sufficiently active role on either night to merit an invitation; and those of the Carabineers who had contributed could not be invited whilst their officer was excluded.

  It was a proper English feast, prepared by Molly Sarton and served up by Clarissa. Which is to say, there were potatoes and carrots for all who wanted them, but the centerpiece of the meal was a joint of beef roasted quite perfect and offered with pudding and dripping. A modest menu, to be sure, but what it lacked in courses, it made up for in quantity. There was God’s own plenty there for all to eat, and enough good claret so that all might leave the table tipsy if they so chose.

  Though in the beginning a fair quiet reigned at the table, as we filled our stomachs and drank our fair share of wine, tongues loosened and talk began to flow round the table.

  Sir John, who sat at the head as Molly had insisted, rose and toasted our hostess and cook. Then did he raise his glass to one after another at the table, speaking of each and describing his contribution to the outcome of our signal victories.

  He raised his glass, first of all, to him who sat across from Clarissa and me: ”To Will Fowler,” said Sir John, ”who, for no reasons of personal gain, but rather to maintain the good name of the Grenville family, kept Mr. Dickens apprised of the illegal activities of Sir Simon. Specifically did he tell us of the movement of the smugglers’ caravan to London and of the landing on the next night at Goodwin Sands.”

  All drank to Mr. Fowler as I picked up a bottle of claret and raced round the table, filling glasses.

  “To Mr. Richard Dickens who, having found his way to the right side of the law, discovered a way to remain active in his chosen profession, even though kept in a state of involuntary retirement by one we need not name here. To wit, he formed a model intelligence network and used it to aid Mr. Sarton-God rest his soul-and me. ‘Twas he who passed on the information regarding the caravan and the landing and assisted me in the planning of the two operations which resulted.”

  The table drank to Mr. Dickens. One or two signaled to me that their glasses were empty. I filled them.

  “To Mick Crawly, hackney coach driver extraordinary, who took our little force up the hill to the crossroads where the first battle was fought. He did this at some risk to himself and to his fine team of horses. And he generously permitted us to make use of his coach to block the road to London. It might have suffered considerable damage, yet miraculously it did not.”

  I wondered that I myself might well be tipsy once all the toasts had been drunk; there were ten besides Sir John at the table, after all.

  “To Oliver Perkins, Benjamin Bailey, and Will Patley, three trusty members of my London constabulary, the Bow Street Runners. They came here to Deal without condition and proved invaluable each time they were called upon. I owe so much to them and their fellows, I know that I shall not begin to be able to repay the debt, except with my deepest thanks.”

  Here Sir John paused as we drank. His forehead then wrinkled in a frown.

  “John Bilbo,” he called out. ”Are you here, Mr. Bilbo?”

  “I am, sir. I’m here at the other end of the table, a bit below the
salt.”

  “Where you belong! I had not heard you say a word for a bit, Mr. Bilbo, and I wondered perhaps you’d slipped out without my knowing of it.”

  “Little chance of that, Sir John, so long as there’s a bit of that roast beef left.” Mr. Bilbo then laughed heartily at his own joke.

  “Then let us, one and all, drink to him, ladies and gentlemen, for without him, his sloop, his cannon, and his seamanship, most of us would not be here at all. We had heard rumors of Black Jack Bilbo, of his shady past. Stories were told that he was a pirate, and others that he was a privateer, yet on one point they did all seem to agree-that he was a fine commander and a great seaman. Well, that was demonstrated in the waters just off Goodwin Sands two nights back. He is a grand fellow and a great one on whom I knew we all could depend. He is a friend and will ever be-I give you, Mr. John Bilbo.”

  “Hear, hear,” was heard from Mr. Perkins, and a scattering of applause came from his fellows. They held up empty glasses. I grabbed a bottle from the sideboard and rushed to provide remedy.

  “And now,” said Sir John, ”we come to Jeremy Proctor.”

  He caught me offguard. I had not by then recovered my place at the table. I could not do so at that moment, and so I simply stood rooted by the sideboard with what I’m sure must have been a look of surprise upon my face. I knew not what to expect.

  “Oftentimes,” he continued, ”Jeremy is denied his due. This, I believe, is because I have come to think of him as a son. If he were my son, I should think of him as satisfactory in every way, yet I would still deny him his due. This is unfair of me, I know, yet it is how I myself was brought up. My father was a military man, and he was always sure that whatever was good could be made better. I entered the Royal Navy as a midshipman and found that the same rule applied. And so I, the prisoner of my past, have tended to treat Jeremy as I was treated. And in this instance-I might say, in these two instances-he deserves better than that. In the battle at the crossroads, at considerable risk to himself, he protected our sharpshooter, Mr. Patley-”

  ”Saved my life, he did!” Mr. Parley called out, interrupting.

  “So I understand,” Sir John agreed. ”And the next night on Goodwin Sands, when Mr. Bilbo’s successful attack upon the smuggling vessel had ended the resistance of those on shore, their leader, Sir Simon, thought to escape, undetected and unidentified. It was Jeremy detected his escape and identified him to me as the leader. I sent him to capture him, not realizing that I could have been sending him to his death. Yet he acquitted himself just as well in that instance as he had earlier, catching Sir Simon and, braving a shot aimed point-blank at him, overcoming the smuggler chief. So let us drink also to Jeremy Proctor, who did wonderfully well, though I suppose he could have done better-yet I can’t, for the life of me, think how.”

  Having spoken thusly, he extended his glass in the ceremonial gesture toward me, then brought it back and sipped from it whilst those at table mimicked the gesture. For my part, I burned with embarrassment; my eyes filled with tears. Will Patley led a round of applause. Somehow I found my way back to my chair and sat, quite overcome, yet forcing a smile.

  “Now then,” said Sir John, ”have I slighted any? Is there one, or even two, here this evening whose part in this has not been recognized?”

  There were calls from Mr. Crawly and Mr. Fowler, repeating Clarissa’s name.

  Then did Molly Sarton make her voice heard above the rest: ”Just like a man to fail to give a female rightful credit. Yes indeed, Clarissa! — the girl who served you your dinner. Does that count for so little?”

  “Not at all, not at all!” cried Sir John. ”Let it be known to one and all that I am second to none in my appreciation of that young lady and well she knows that, or so she should. Let me make amends by offering this toast:

  “Gentlemen, I give you Mistress Clarissa Roundtree. Let it be known that she is much in her own right-secretary to Lady Fielding, poet, a writer of romances yet to be written, and incarnate proof that women are, in ways yet uncounted, equal, if not superior, to men. Her contribution to the victories we celebrate here may not be material, nonetheless it was real enough and can be measured. Her insatiable curiosity set her wandering about Sir Simon’s estate, making discoveries of perfume, wine, and a corpse that kept alive my suspicions of him. Thus, her misadventures provided the impulse which drove forward my investigation. Also consider her influence upon Jeremy …”

  At that there were a few chuckles heard from that corner of the table where sat the three London constables. Sir John ignored them.

  “Could he have accomplished the feats which I have described, without her womanly inspiration?”

  There was laughter all round the table at that. It rose in volume and pitch as Sir John bellowed forth:

  “Surely not!” He raised his glass to Clarissa and drank, as did the rest.

  Then, reader, as if I were not sufficiently chagrined by all this merrymaking at my expense, Clarissa, who sat next to me, leaned over and planted a hearty buss upon my cheek. Then did the table go quite mad with foolish laughter. Alas, even I, in spite of myself, did join in; it would have taken a more sober-sided individual than I to have resisted.

  In all, though we were at table well over an hour more, Sir John’s toasts to one and all there at dinner provided the climax to a jolly evening. We were perhaps a bit rowdy, yet harmlessly so. And there was to the occasion also something a bit melancholy, for I believe that all who were there realized that in spite of the abundant good feeling, this would almost certainly be the only time we would all sit together at the same table. For those of us who knew the late magistrate-and for Molly most of all-there was the added disappointment that Albert Sarton was not present to celebrate the fruition of his work in Deal.

  With those melancholy circumstances no doubt in mind, Clarissa began a conversation with Mr. Fowler which had a most surprising result. He sat, as I believe I have already mentioned, across the table from us. And the hum of talk around us was such that she was obliged to speak up a bit in order to be heard. Yet all the rest were so absorbed in their own conversations that none but I paid them much attention. I know not if I can quote them exact, yet I shall try, knowing full well that any mistakes I make will certainly be corrected.

  I recall that she waited till Mr. Fowler had concluded with Mr. Dickens on his right when Clarissa called out to him and gained his attention.

  “Mr. Fowler,” said she, ”I wonder if you would clear up a few things for me.”

  “I’d be happy to try, Miss Clarissa,” said he.

  “That last walk I took round the estate …”

  “Ah, I was thinkin’ you might get to that sometime this evening. What is it you want to know?”

  “Well, a number of things, really. For instance, I believe I fainted whilst out alone in the night, though I’m sure I was grabbed from behind.”

  “You was grabbed from behind, true enough, by a guard put out to keep all away from the chalk mine.”

  “And did I faint, or was I somehow sent into an unconscious state?”

  “Both, I fear. You fainted, p’rhaps from the shock of bein’ grabbed so rough. But then they, not knowing what to do with you since they was aware you was with Sir John, put a sponge to you which put you to sleep till I was sent for and came.”

  “What was in the sponge that kept me asleep so long?”

  “It was a potion, so to speak, of all the worst, such as squeezed mandrake root, opium-if you know what that is-and the whole of it soaked in wine. It kept you sleeping for the better part of an hour whilst I was sought out and summoned. They’d no idea of the plan of the house and must have wakened half the household staff before finding me.”

  Clarissa giggled, something she didn’t often do. ”It must have taken you half that time to get out of that silly ghost costume and get the paint from your face.”

  He looked at her oddly. ”Pardon? I remembers you had something to say about the ghost, but I put it all to that
potion you’d been given.”

  “Nothing of the kind,” said she. ”I assure you that I saw you dressed up as the ghost in that silly last-century costume. I know it was you.”

  “Miss Clarissa,” said he. ”I assure you it were not.”

  “But he looked like you,” she protested. ”Quite like you.”

  “Be that as it might …” But then did he hesitate. ”P’rhaps I should confess to you something of my family’s history. You see, Sir Simon and I share the same great-grandfather. I carry the family face better than he does. You remarked upon it once yourself.”

  “A bar sinister!” She fairly shouted it. Heads turned, and Mr. Fowler looked away as if to deny his part in this conversation. Clarissa, on her side, clapped her hand over her mouth and rolled her eyes in shame. To me she muttered, ”When will I ever learn?”

  There was little more to say to Mr. Fowler. (I’m sure he thought she had said quite enough already.) And so, for a lengthy period of time she remained unusually quiet. Then, of a sudden, as if the thought had just struck her, she turned to me with an expression I might call stunned. Then did she say to me in a whisper: ”Good God, Jeremy, do you realize what this means? I’ve seen a ghost.”

  A good deal of the talk round the table that evening had far greater import. As an instance of this, Mr. Bilbo fell into discussion with Mr. Dickens and learned from the latter than an awkward situation had developed with the prisoners held in Deal Castle. They had to be moved to London at once, or his chief, Mr. Eccles, would discover their presence, listen to his old friend, Sir Simon Grenville, and set them all free. He was capable of such treachery. The difficulty was this: They had not transportation sufficient in Deal to move so many. Mr. Bilbo asked how many there were and was told that there were over forty, if they were to include the Frenchmen from the ship. ”Why not include them?” Mr. Bilbo was heard to say. ”I can take them all. We’ll lock them in the hold, and they’ll make good ballast.” His offer was then passed on to Sir John; he liked it so well that he asked if he and all the rest of the London-bound party might also come along. Nothing could have pleased the old privateer more.