Moon Cutters

by Janet Woods

  Carriages lined the outside of the weathered stones of the wall surrounding the cemetery. The cart containing Mrs Swift’s worldly goods had already departed, rumbling off towards Poole. Sir James was efficient.

  Miranda and Lucy were concealed behind a family mausoleum near a break in the wall. An angel stood on a plinth above them, giving her blessing with two raised and crooked fingers while Mrs Swift issued her directions.

  ‘Wait until the church doors are closed and the carriage drivers are inside the church, and then use the wall to hide your movements as you sneak into the carriage. You know which one it is.’

  Miranda had begun to admire Mrs Swift. She was strong and brave, though opinionated. ‘Thank you for being so good to us.’

  Tears glistened in the woman’s eyes, as if she wasn’t used to being paid a compliment. ‘Oh, I knew the pair of you would be trouble as soon as I set eyes on you. It was plain that your mother was a decent, God-fearing woman who’d taught you some manners. That sort of innocence always attracts men of a certain type. And it was plain Sir James had some plan of his own – and just as he was about to offer for Sarah Tibbets, or so she would have us believe. She should count her lucky stars the scoundrel didn’t get a ring on her finger.’

  Instead, Miranda had got one on her finger – the one that had belonged to her mother and put there by her own favourite scoundrel.

  It seemed forever until the door to the church closed on the mourners. The horse turned a dark-fringed gaze their way, and the dark interior of the closed carriage pressed suffocatingly in on them when they scrambled inside.

  Miranda hoped the horse wouldn’t take it into his head to move off. But, like all Sir James’s animals, it was well trained and behaved itself. They shrank into their respective corners when Mrs Swift got in, her wide black skirt and the black curtains drawn across the carriage windows, effective in hiding them from sight.

  ‘Thank you, Sir James, you’ve been so kind,’ she simpered when the coachman handed her in. ‘The bishop will be part of our entourage. And has kindly offered to precede us … such an honour.’

  ‘I’m pleased to be of help, dear lady,’ he said, his voice sounding totally sincere.

  Watching them go, Fletcher heaved a sigh of relief and headed for his horse. He intended to follow, off road and from a safe distance, and make sure they got there safely.

  He’d barely reached the outskirts of Poole when he heard horses coming up behind him.

  He spun round to be confronted by Simon Bailey who was flanked by two of his men. ‘Mr Taunt, you’re under arrest. Best you come without making a fuss.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  Simon smiled widely. ‘Someone might shoot you.’

  ‘I’m unarmed.’

  ‘Accidents happen, Mr Taunt.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  He gazed from one to the other, wondering if he should make a run for it – but to what end? He hadn’t done anything illegal recently – at least, not anything he could remember.

  ‘I hope this isn’t going to be some nuisance trespass charge my uncle has concocted against me.’

  Bailey and his men exchanged a glance and laughed. ‘I’m given to understand you became a married man barely two hours ago. You wouldn’t want to disappoint your bride by dying before she has a proper wedding night, would you?’

  A smile flitted across Fletcher’s face when he thought of Miranda in her shabby patched skirt and her mismatched bodice, her eyes dewy soft with love and gazing into his while they took their vows before the bishop. Mrs Swift had gazed on smugly, pleased by the outcome of her own meddling. Lucy had wept.

  ‘How the devil could you know about my marriage?’

  ‘Let’s say I attended the wedding. I was quite touched.’

  Fletcher felt a little desperate. ‘Look, Bailey, my wife and her sister are in the carriage up ahead. I need to convey them to a place of safety before I can allow myself to be arrested.’

  ‘One of my men is looking out for them.’

  ‘What man? I can only see my uncle’s second … coachman.’ He recalled former suspicions because the man was too friendly with Bertha, the Monksfoot Abbey cook. His suspicions had never progressed past that. Not that she was much of a cook. He shrugged. ‘Barnstable is one of your men? I’d never have believed it. He’s humping my cook. Bertha will brain him with the skillet when she finds out.’

  Simon Bailey’s eyes lit up, and he looked as though he found it hard to control his laughter. ‘Come, come, Mr Taunt, you’re being a bit hard on them, especially since it’s obvious that you believe in true love. Now … come along with me and I’ll lock you in a nice safe cell until it’s all over … because my men will be going in hard.’

  ‘I can think of better places to be, so would prefer not to. I have unfinished business with my uncle.’

  ‘So does the crown, so join the queue. I’d be grateful if you had anything useful to tell me.’

  Fletcher began to laugh; the man certainly had a sense of humour. ‘I can sense Oswald’s hand in this. If you think I’m going to allow myself to be incarcerated without reason, you can think twice. There’s nothing you can charge me with.’

  Simon’s grin had a touch of the piratical about it. ‘It wouldn’t take long to think of something.’

  ‘Shoot me if you must, Mr Bailey, but I’m unarmed, and it will have to be in the back. I’m not a bad judge of character, and I doubt if that would sit well on your shoulders. I’m returning to defend my house and home, and to sort out a family problem, something I’m not looking forward to. Smuggling is your sport, not mine.’

  He turned and headed back towards his home, his spine prickling and knotting even at the thought of a bullet tearing into his flesh.

  ‘Try to keep out of my way, that’s all, Mr Taunt,’ the man called after him.

  Bastard! Fletcher thought, but he allowed himself a grin. Damn it all, there was something he liked about the man!

  Twenty-One

  Sir James had put it about that there would be a gentlemen’s wake for the reverend that evening. Very little mourning would go on, but plenty of drinking and gambling.

  Fletcher hadn’t expected to be invited, so when his uncle told him he was welcome to attend, he was suspicious. Was it just another of the man’s eccentricities or, as he suspected, an attempt to undermine him again? ‘I’m entertaining a guest.’

  ‘A woman?’

  Fletcher scrambled to give his father the first name he came up with. ‘A man. His name is Fryer … um … Hadrian Fryer.’

  ‘Hadrian Fryer? I had no idea there was a stranger in our midst. Bring him by all means, Fletcher. I might have some special entertainment for a select few of us.’

  He couldn’t help saying, ‘Will Miss Lucy be playing the piano for us, then? Or Miss Jarvis?’

  ‘I was thinking more along the lines of sport: use them as hostesses for the evening, then auction them off as slaves. It will entertain the men.’

  ‘I thought you liked them, uncle.’

  ‘They turned out to be rather tedious. The younger one is empty-headed and prattles. As for Miranda, she disapproves of everything I do for her and needs to learn how to be grateful. But she has had her chances. I found the pearls I recently bought her thrown into a corner. I imagine I shall find a place of employment for them somewhere.’

  And Fletcher could imagine where that place would be.

  Blood beginning to boil, Fletcher had made a show of looking around him while he took a steadying breath. ‘I expected them to be at the funeral.’

  ‘The creatures are probably still abed. They will turn up for the evening entertainment, I promise.’

  And that had alerted Fletcher to the fact that his uncle hadn’t checked on them yet, but was confident he knew of Lucy’s whereabouts. As for Miranda, it was only by luck that she’d found a way out of the tunnels. Thinking she was still down there, his uncle would send the dogs down to flush her out.

  Now Fle
tcher stood at the window and gazed down over Axe Cove. It looked totally peaceful. The tide was out, the beach had been cleared of seaweed, and the sand stretched in little ripples to the water’s edge. There, seagulls fished amongst the froth. On the horizon, a smoky purple smudge heralded the approach of evening.

  He loved it here – in its summer peacefulness and its winter fury, and all the stages in between.

  The channel in and out of the cove was a dark blue slash of water. He’d always known that the stream servicing the well in the crypt ended up in the Axe. When he’d been a boy, and his uncle’s shadow, for he’d hero-worshipped the man, he’d been with his uncle and Silas in the crypt. They were directing the workers to stack bolts of fabric and other goods that had been unloaded from the Wild Rose. At the time, Fletcher had no idea that the activity was an illegal one.

  He’d climbed down the ladder to drop a piece of wood into the well, one he’d fashioned into a boat. His little craft had been sucked under. He’d found it a couple of weeks later, floating in the cove.

  His uncle had thrashed him when he’d come back up the ladder. ‘If you go down there, you’ll be swept away, and one day Silas will discover your remains lying on the beach, with the seagulls pecking your eyes from your head.’

  Hands held over his sore buttocks, he’d said defiantly, ‘How will Silas know it’s me?’

  Silas had laughed. ‘The bones will have your name on them, my lad. Fletcher Taunt from Marguerite House.’

  The power of the current had fascinated him. When it rained hard, the water came up the well, and once it had spilled over on to the crypt. Sometimes it formed a whirlpool as it retreated. If the summer was dry, it became a trickle. The water was clean and cool and tasted fresh. But the thought of Miranda being sucked into that stream made him shudder.

  His uncle had loved him then, after a fashion, but when he’d grown into manhood and developed a mind of his own, he’d suddenly become a rival.

  The Wild Rose was resting on the sand, kept upright by the ropes tying her to the shore. Fletcher had warned Tom off as best he could, but would that stop the man from taking the lugger out? Tom had always been a law unto himself.

  It would be a simple matter to stop him. All he needed to do was loosen a plank and the incoming tide would do the rest. As soon as it ebbed again, he could repair it. Fletcher was tempted.

  He turned to his father. ‘I was thinking I could sink the Wild Rose to stop Tom taking her out.’

  ‘Why bother? Tom knows the risks, and you’ve warned him. If people believe the rumour that the raid will be in Christchurch, then they deserve to get caught. Even if they don’t, it won’t stop them coming across. If the reverend was right, this is a big push. It’s the dark of the moon, and the smugglers will try to take advantage of it. The authorities will be stretched to the limit.’

  ‘There will be bloodshed.’

  ‘Blood is shed every day along this coast. It always has been. Too many good men are killed just going about their lawful business. Men like my brother think they’re above the law, and the more they get away with it, the worse it becomes. I understand that smugglers will never be stamped out entirely. The customs service and revenue men do their best to keep it under control when it gets too organized.’ He placed a hand on his son’s arm. ‘I know your conscience troubles you, Fletcher. When it does, just think of Miranda and Lucy – two innocents who accidentally wandered into the spider’s web. It doesn’t take much imagination to know what my brother had planned for them.’

  ‘I’ve got them to safety. My uncle has not noticed they’re missing yet and intends to entertain his less savoury friends with their presence. I hope to be there when he realizes they’re missing. What are your plans, sir?’

  ‘I will find the opportunity to bring things to a head before midnight. That’s when people expect the ghosts of the dead to walk abroad with their heads tucked under their arms. If we time it right, it will be a double blow.’

  ‘May I ask you something … can you actually detach that head?’

  Adrian chuckled. ‘I admit that sometimes it feels as if it belongs to somebody else. I used to have a silk mask to wear, so I didn’t frighten the ladies. It invited more curiosity, since people wanted to know what was under it.’

  Fletcher said, ‘What will you do if your brother doesn’t hand over the title and estate? He won’t, you know. Not without putting up a struggle.’

  ‘If I can shame him in front of his friends and get him to admit to what he’s done, then that will give me satisfaction. After that, I’ll do things the long way, and have a legal representative prepare a petition to set before the House of Lords.’

  ‘He might shoot you, and will probably shoot me. His guns are pin-fired and he’s a good shot.’

  ‘And you don’t want to visit your maker before you’ve enjoyed your wedding night, aye?’

  Fletcher chuckled, for he’d already tasted a little of what was to come. ‘There’s that.’

  Adrian smiled. ‘Not all of my brother’s staff are loyal to him, or even dishonest; they are just too scared to defy him. I’ve arranged for the cartridges to be removed, and if all goes to plan, we’ll have time to get out of there and run as if the devil’s after us.’ He picked up his robe. Mrs Targett had taken charge of it, and it was now clean. He draped it over the dog.

  ‘Are you wearing that over your evening suit? It will be covered in dog hairs.’

  ‘Only on the inside; if it has Caesar’s scent on it, the other dogs will be intrigued, and it might stop them attacking me if ordered.’

  ‘Not so my uncle.’

  ‘People usually think twice before shooting a monk, and you did tell James that my name was Hadrian Fryer. The cowl and mask will stop him recognizing me at first. Remember, he’s not seen the result of his handiwork; I want to catch him off guard.’

  It was with some trepidation that Fletcher entered his uncle’s house at the stroke of eleven. There was an air of expectation about the men present, and some of them were inebriated. His uncle’s dark eyes had something in their depths, a sort of feverishness.

  ‘I thought you were never coming. Where’s this mysterious guest of yours?’

  ‘He had some business to attend to and will be along in a little while.’

  ‘Rather an odd time to do business … unless it’s a little monkey business, of course. I have no intention of waiting any longer.’ He held up his arms. ‘Let’s get on with the entertainment, shall we, gentlemen? Just remember, the young women are of exceptional quality, so be prepared to make a good bid on them.’

  A cheer went up and they followed their host out into the hall, all of them knowing the prey was the two Jarvis girls. Disgust filled Fletcher.

  His uncle whistled and his two remaining dogs appeared. A shawl was waved under their noses, and the dogs wagged their tails when he opened the cellar door. His uncle turned and smiled at him. ‘Fetch her,’ he said, and the dogs put their noses to the ground and went down into the darkness. ‘In the meantime, the rest of you can go and hunt out the second wench. I have her tucked away in the church crypt, the one by the well.’

  They went off, baying as loudly as a pack of dogs, leaving behind a man who was the worse for wear from drink, collapsed in the corner of the couch. He was one of Simon Bailey’s men.

  Sir James flung himself on to a couch and gazed up at his nephew. ‘Are you not joining them in the hunt, Fletcher? I thought you would like the prize.’

  For the first time in his life, he felt like killing someone with his bare hands. ‘I think not, uncle. I’ve only just got here and I haven’t had a drink yet. I’d better wait for my guest. I’ll put a bid on when the time comes.’

  ‘I must say, you don’t seem at all perturbed. I thought you might have some idea of playing the hero and rescuing the prey. I was looking forward to it.’

  His uncle wouldn’t be disappointed in that, if everything went to plan. ‘I don’t see any point in being upset. I thought yo
u intended to wed her.’

  ‘I toyed with the idea. I even thought I might be in love with her a little, but she wasn’t biddable, and she disappointed me once too often.’

  ‘What will you do with them afterwards?’ he said, as the man began to move away.

  Cocking his head to one side, his uncle could barely keep the disdain from his eyes. ‘I imagine I’ll think of something. There are many places where enterprising young women can be placed to earning a living, and they owe me a debt that needs paying off.’

  It wasn’t too long before the dogs came back. ‘I ordered you to fetch her, you dumb fools. Where is she?’

  The men came back, jostling each other and grumbling. ‘What sort of idiots do you think we are, Fenmore? The tomb is empty, and so are the others, apart from a few bones.’

  There was a high-pitched giggle. ‘Ingram thought he saw the phantom monk down there and it disappeared.’

  A nerve twitching in his jaw, Fletcher’s uncle turned to stare at him. ‘Where are the sisters? What have you done with them? You can’t just take them, since they’re my wards.’

  ‘That’s not true. Miranda is my wife. We were married this morning by the bishop. Her sister prefers to live under her care. What sort of man would treat two young ladies under his protection in such a scurrilous manner?’ Fletcher saw a faint movement beyond the door in the darkness of the cellar and felt a yawning relief. Having been ruled by his uncle for most of his life, he felt inadequate to properly deal with him.

  ‘How did you get them out?’

  ‘During the reverend’s funeral they were concealed in your own carriage, hidden there by Mrs Swift and accompanied by the bishop’s conveyance. Did you really think I was going to allow you to debauch two innocent young women? You should be ashamed of yourself … You all should be ashamed of yourselves.’

  Some of the men shuffled their feet, and another gave a shamefaced laugh. ‘Hoist by your own petard, aye, James. Well done, young man – a fine evening’s entertainment. I think I might head for home.’