Moon Cutters

by Janet Woods

‘It’s a small amount for a legacy, Jack.’

  ‘Aye, it’s little more than a keepsake. What do you intend to do with those youngsters, Sir James?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. Perhaps there will be room in the charity school.’

  ‘They’re already overcrowded, I believe.’

  ‘They could probably fit them in for an extra fee. They couldn’t afford to pay from this legacy.’ He spun one of the coins in the air and laughed. ‘Have you shifted that stuff yet?’

  ‘It should be gone tonight. We could do with some extra storage.’

  ‘If Silas Asher sells me Monksfoot Abbey, we could use that.’

  ‘Aye, but somebody told him you intended to pull the Abbey down and mine the clay and gravel out from under it.’

  ‘I’ll have to convince him otherwise. Who started that rumour anyway?’

  ‘I don’t suppose we’ll ever know for sure, sir.’

  James grunted as he grumbled, ‘I have a bloody good idea.’

  They gently lifted the still figure into the makeshift coffin and wrapped it in the linen sheet he’d lined it with. Placing the woman’s head on a small cushion, he covered her face.

  Jack said, ‘She was a bonny-looking woman … neat, but nicely built.’

  ‘That she was, Jack. I fancy the older girl takes after her. Come. Let’s go.’

  They would hammer the lid on after the older girl had identified her.

  The others had returned from town. There had been no sign of the couple from the road, but the authorities were keeping a look out for them.

  There was other news. One of the maids, who had just come back from town, was brought before him by Pridie.

  ‘What is it, Pridie?’

  ‘It’s your nephew, sir.’

  ‘What of him?’

  ‘Maisie here overheard something in the market, and I thought it was important enough to bring her to you so you could hear it from her own mouth.’

  ‘What is it, girl?’

  ‘I overheard the Monksfoot coachman tell someone that Mr Fletcher Taunt had purchased Monksfoot Abbey, lock, stock and barrel.’

  James felt as though he’d been punched in the midriff, and spluttered, ‘He’s what?’

  ‘He’s purchased—’

  ‘Yes, yes … I heard you the first time. Thank you, girl. Pridie, give the girl sixpence as a reward for keeping her ears open.’

  Going into the drawing room, he slammed the door behind him. So that was what Fletcher was doing behind his back – using the extra money he’d made from James’s half of the ship to buy the very building that he’d always coveted.

  Smoke billowed into the room from the chimney in the down draught he’d created and he began to cough. He poured himself a brandy and sipped it slowly while the dogs whined outside the door and scratched at the panels.

  It was Mrs Pridie who found the courage to approach him. ‘What shall we do about the woman’s body, sir?’

  James’s anger had forced the task at hand from his mind. ‘The elder of the two girls must identify her, and I’ll tell the doctor to issue a death certificate. Ask Jack to arrange for a plot to be dug in the local churchyard and to tell the preacher I’ll expect him to say some words over the body tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Reverend’s Swift’s wife turned the girls away from the parish … said they didn’t belong to ours.’ Pridie’s sniff displayed her affront. ‘Anyone would think she ran parish affairs.’

  ‘She does, since her husband is a sot. I don’t blame him with that nagging shrew as a wife. Tell the good reverend to lay off the holy wine. And if he doesn’t put in an appearance, sober or not, I’ll personally fetch him. I’ll haul him out of his pulpit by the scruff of his scrawny neck, tie him behind my horse and drag his skinny arse along the highway to the cemetery.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And Pridie?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Tell Jack to say none of those things, just that we need his services to lay a body to rest in the old cemetery. We must leave him with some pride.’

  Pridie smiled.

  ‘Also, ask your husband to get in touch with the quarry for an estimate. I want the walls and gatehouse reinstated between my property and the Monksfoot Estate, where the road passes through my land.’

  ‘But the folks at Monksfoot Abbey won’t be able to … What about the public right of way?’

  ‘There was no public right of way until my grandfather provided one. I’m about to withdraw the favour. They and their visitors can use the long way round.’

  Her smile faded as the purpose of the wall sunk in. ‘Anything else, sir?’

  ‘See if the older girl is awake. Wrap her in a warm rug and I’ll carry her to the stable to do the indentification. Let’s get this business over and done with. She might need a bit of comfort afterwards, so make sure she has it.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Once she’s properly identified the woman and infant, we’ll leave the body in the carriage house tonight, ready for burial in the morning.’

  Pridie nodded and turned away.

  ‘And, Pridie, rid yourself of that disapproving expression. If you need to place any blame, it can rest on the shoulders of my rascally nephew, Fletcher Taunt.’

  Four

  It was the second funeral in as many months. In that time, March had come in with a boisterous roar of wind and was beginning to calm its temper.

  The first funeral hadn’t attracted much attention, Fletcher thought. It had been the body of a vagrant woman. The ceremony had been attended by his uncle, a couple of house servants and a worker from the Monksfoot Estate who had been passing by and stopped to pay his respects, Fletcher had been led to believe.

  The deceased’s two children had also attended.

  A modest stone was erected, with the date of death recorded. It stated that Anna Louise Jarvis died in childbirth and was buried with her stillborn infant.

  ‘“Beloved mother of Miranda and Lucinda” had been etched on the stone when I went back to have a look at it. They were pretty little maids,’ the worker had told Tom Pepper. ‘Almost grown.’

  Tom had made further enquiries at the local inn before he’d approached Fletcher with the information. ‘It’s said Sir James has offered the children temporary accommodation while they recover from the privations their exposure to the cold had brought about.’

  His uncle was known for his occasional philanthropic acts, and Fletcher nearly lost interest until he remembered Sir James’s shady business interests and the fact that the children were two young girls who had nobody to protect them.

  Sir James owned the deeds to several waterfront investment properties along the coast to Southampton, and a couple in London. He rented them out for an enormous amount, closing his eyes to what went on in them, his reputation buffered by several lawyers, agents and rent collectors in his pay. Some were the haunt of smugglers and press gangs; others were houses of ill repute.

  Not that Fletcher was himself totally pure in body and mind, but it was possible the ‘pretty little maids’ would end up in one of those houses or, worse, sent overseas and sold to the highest bidder.

  Fletcher’s interest was piqued. His uncle’s guests would get short shrift once they no longer amused him, and he intended to keep an eye on the situation. He knew his uncle well, and out of sight usually meant out of mind with him.

  Silas Asher’s funeral was vastly more spectacular than Anna Jarvis’s had been.

  The evening weather was uncertain as to mood, for though the clouds and sea were stippled with the last reflections of a glorious setting sun, mad blusters of wind invaded the evening calm, sending coat skirts flapping and hats flying.

  Silas had been a popular and colourful character in the district, despite being feared. He’d been the last in a long line of wreckers and smugglers, a man who’d carried on his family tradition without scruple. Half of the local law enforcers had their hands in his pockets.

  Silas had blood on
his hands. That’s the way he’d been brought up, and his defiance of the law collected only admiration, with little thought given to his victims and their families.

  He’d been more notorious than Sir James Fenmore, who guarded his own privacy scrupulously and hid his deceit behind an honest front.

  Silas had known too much about everyone, and there had been a couple of attempts to end his life. Fletcher had always got on with him, and his uncle had never objected to the relationship he’d formed with the man, as long as Silas didn’t lead him into danger.

  Were they related by blood, as Silas had hinted? Fletcher wondered. It was entirely possible. He’d never met Adrian Taunt, who’d been a soldier of fortune without family or means – one who’d conveniently died abroad, leaving Fletcher’s mother a widow.

  There were no paintings or sketches of Adrian Taunt for Fletcher to compare himself with. His mother would never discuss the man, except to say, ‘It was a marriage of convenience. He’s dead and gone, and good riddance.’ Fletcher’s looks were annoyingly like those of his uncle, except for the difference in eye colour.

  Word of mouth had spread the news quickly. The cliff top was lined with onlookers gazing down into Axe Cove. Two of the house staff served brandy. Another preceded Fletcher and Tom Pepper, lighting flares as they carried the body of Silas down the path and settled it in the old dingy that was to be his pyre.

  Everything smelled strongly of lamp spirit and the brandy Fletcher and Tom had poured into Silas to help incinerate him from the inside. Silas was as pickled as a dead man could get.

  Fletcher turned to Tom. ‘I think we’re going to be half-seas-over on the fumes if we don’t hurry and get it over with. Did Silas intend for us to go up in flames with him?’

  Tom chuckled.

  The lugger, the Wild Rose, was fully manned, but she displayed only half of her sails on her three masts and headed for the harbour entrance in a manner so confident as to suggest she could find it by herself if need be.

  In the dingy carrying Silas’s body, Fletcher hoisted the sail, and Tom freed the little craft from the shore for its final voyage and jumped in after him. The dingy was sluggish when compared with the Wild Rose, like a duck with one paddle.

  Silas’s shroud was weighted down with heavy ballast bricks, secured to his body with chains. The weight would carry Silas’s remains down into the deep and away from the currents that might drag him back to shore.

  Beyond the mouth of the Axe, the revenue men’s cutter came into view, almost blocking the entrance on the other side when it dropped its sea anchor. She was similar in style, and fast, but not as fast as the lugger in full sail. They didn’t risk coming through the entrance on this occasion.

  Fletcher swore. ‘Don’t tell me they’re going to search the boats and the body for contraband. It will start an instant war.’

  ‘Bailey isn’t that daft; he’s just being provocative.’

  The crew of the Wild Rose ignored the cutter and sped for the gap with the air of one who had every intention of sailing right through the revenue men’s ship. The cutter’s crew scrambled to pull on the anchor rope, leaving just enough leeway for the Wild Rose to sail alongside her with barely a gap between them. The crews hurled insults at each other, even while Fletcher admired both skippers for holding their nerve.

  When the Wild Rose reached the designated spot, they dropped the sea anchor. By the time Fletcher got there in the valiantly struggling dingy, the water was up to his ankles and the funeral craft was leaking like a sieve.

  He saw Bailey on the deck of the cutter, telescope held to his eye.

  Fletcher put a finger to his cap in acknowledgement. He could have liked the man if he’d been a trifle less honest.

  ‘Signal to the Wild Rose to send their dingy over, else we’ll be going down with Silas,’ he said.

  The sky was beginning to darken. While Tom signalled, the staff on the cliff top began to light flares. Fletcher saw his uncle, outlined against the sky, and affection for him arrived in an unwanted surge. He wished they’d got on better. Perhaps Sir James would come to the house later, and he could mend the rift between them, though he didn’t see why he should make the effort when it was his uncle who was in the wrong.

  Fletcher used a flare to light a fuse and stepped from the funeral boat into the Wild Rose’s dingy with Tom. The oarsmen rapidly rowed it away.

  They’d barely made it on to the deck of the Wild Rose when flames ran up the mast of the dingy containing the body, and the sail exploded into a raging fire. A cheer went up from those on shore, followed by silence as they watched the boat burn.

  He glanced to where he’d last seen his uncle. He was watching him through a telescope. There was another man with him; from his outline he appeared well built. ‘Who’s that with my uncle, Tom?’

  ‘Murdoch Barnstable. Your uncle employed him three months ago as second coachman, and he sometimes rides with him as a sort of bodyguard. I’ve heard that he’s good with his fists.’

  Fletcher acknowledged his uncle’s presence with a lift of his hand, and the telescope was slipped into the man’s pocket. It would do as a start.

  Eventually, someone began to sing in a deep voice. ‘Rock of ages, cleft for me, let me hide myself in thee.’

  The rest of the mourners waded in with great gusto. ‘Let the water and the blood, from thy wounded side that flowed.’

  Fletcher joined in the singing. ‘Be of sin the double cure, save from wrath and make me pure.’

  Tom snorted loudly. ‘Silas will come back and haunt you if he hears that.’ He began to bawl out a sea shanty from the top of his voice. ‘Come all ye young fellows that follow the sea, and pray pay attention and listen to me to me …’

  ‘Blow, blow, blow the man down,’ everyone roared.

  Even the crew of the revenue cutter joined in, throwing another hymn into the ring as her crew hauled in her anchor and she flirted her tail as she turned in the wind. Soon the words flowed back and forth between sea and shore, with no rhyme or reason.

  Somebody cursed. Words were changed. Another threw a punch.

  The leaking dingy, fuelled by the body of Silas, was a roaring ball of crackling flame. It was a fierce fire.

  ‘He’s going up like a hog on a spit,’ Tom said, fifteen minutes later.

  ‘Time to go back before the brandy disappears, gentlemen, so let’s leave him to it. Besides, we’re missing a good brawl going on ashore.’

  The Wild Rose lifted anchor and made for her mooring, her crew eager to enjoy the fun.

  Fletcher was halfway up the path when he heard a hiss. He turned in time to see the funeral pyre carrying the charcoaled remains of Silas Asher disappear beneath the water. For a few seconds, he saw a flame burning under the surface, and then it was extinguished.

  The revenue cutter was hauling sail. Soon it would head for its berth at Poole. There would be no business done in this part of the coast tonight; everyone would be at Silas’s wake.

  There came a sudden shout from the cutter, and those on shore ducked when the crew raised their rifles and a rattling fusillade of gunfire filled the air.

  Instinct made both men drop to the ground.

  ‘Bloody varmints,’ Tom said, sounding embarrassed as he rose, brushing the chalky dust from his jerkin.

  Fletcher sprang to his feet and laughed. ‘You’ve got to admit the man has a grim sense of humour. Silas would have liked that touch.’

  ‘He would that.’

  When they reached the cliff top, Fletcher’s glance wandered over the crowd to where he’d last seen his uncle. Damn, he’d just missed him, he thought, watching the rear end of his uncle’s horse disappear into the gloaming.

  James had to admit that Fletcher had put on a good show with Silas’s funeral. He’d been tempted to stay longer, but approaching his nephew was out of the question now.

  Fletcher knew how much he’d wanted Monksfoot Abbey, and James intended to teach Fletcher a lesson, in more ways than one.
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br />   He stabled his horse and poured himself a brandy, his temper still too uncertain to trust. He had guests coming for dinner – Bailey and his widowed sister, Sarah, plus his legal representative and his wife.

  Then there were the two Jarvis children, who were now recovered completely from their misadventure. He’d decided to give the pair an airing, see how they acted in a social situation.

  ‘Are the children suitably attired for a social dinner, Mrs Pridie?’

  ‘As to that, we’ve managed to alter a gown or two for them, but the older one prefers her own clothes. She’s determined not to be beholden to you.’

  ‘That’s her pride speaking. I won’t have her wearing those rags to dinner. Tell her she must change into the suitable clothes that have been provided for her, else I’ll assist her to.’ He gave an indulgent smile. ‘Young Lucy has asked me if she can play the piano and sing for our entertainment.’

  ‘I hope you’re not getting too attached to those youngsters, sir.’

  ‘Why not, pray? They liven the place up and amuse me no end. Lucy is as lively as a flea, and the too-dignified Miss Jarvis beat me at chess the last time we played – and had the bad manners to crow about it. Miranda is quick-witted and clever. She seems to have gathered a lot of knowledge in her short life.’

  ‘May I ask what is to happen to them in the future?’

  James had allowed himself to become attached to the sisters. He hadn’t had female company in the house for a long time and found them a distraction from the seriousness of his business life. He’d considered the various options open to them and hadn’t liked any of them.

  ‘It’s possible that I’ll make them my wards, furnish them with a dowry and find them suitable husbands when they turn sixteen – which can’t be that far off. It will give me a purpose in life. I often notice something gracious and womanly about the elder girl; she’s mature beyond her years. Sometimes she seems more woman than child.’

  ‘But, sir—’

  ‘Enough, Pridie. I’m a man and I know exactly what I’m about where women are concerned.’

  Pridie grinned. ‘Do you, indeed, Sir James … I often wonder if you see beyond the end of your nose.’