‘Well,’ repeated Elizabeth, ‘do you know anyone of that name?’
‘I can’t say as I do, ma’am,’ replied Mrs. Wilmot, her brow furrowed in thought.
‘A Mr. Martin — Mr. J. Martin,’ Elizabeth persisted.
The housekeeper shook her head. ‘No, Miss Thorne.’
‘You don’t suppose your husband would know? It may possibly be one of the staff.’
‘That I can tell you, ma’am. There’s no one of that name employed here,’ replied Mrs. Wilmot, emphatically. ‘But I’ll ask Wilmot, for sure, and let you know what he says, ma’am. Will that be all now?’
Elizabeth was disappointed, but dismissed her and joined Margaret in the parlour. She found her friend poring over her letter with a worried frown.
‘Not bad news, I hope, Margaret?’
‘Not very good, my love. Poor Ernestine has had an inflammation of the lungs, and has been in bed for several weeks and is still confined to the house. She sounds quite low in spirits, poor soul, and says how glad she would be to see me.’
‘Oh, dear, I am sorry. If you think you should go to her, Margaret, pray do not stay on my account. We shall have time enough to explore the country together when your cousin is recovered.’
‘But I cannot leave you so soon, my love! You are scarce settled in here yet — it would be too bad of me!’
‘On the contrary, Margaret. I am very well settled in, and my writing will go along famously in your absence, for I shan’t have anything to distract me from it,’ insisted Elizabeth, with a smile.
‘Well, perhaps I could go just for a few days, to cheer her up a little,’ said Miss Ellis, dubiously. ‘I can return instantly if you should want me, for it’s only five or six miles away, and you can always send someone to fetch me.’
‘Of course I can,’ replied Elizabeth, cheerfully. ‘But I cannot see the least need for anything of the kind. You go, Margaret — I know you’ll not be easy unless you do. I shall be quite content on my own for a while in such a peaceful spot, with my book for company.’
Chapter 15
THE HUT ON THE CLIFF
The light was rapidly fading, grey clouds obscuring the last rays of the setting sun. A breeze had whipped up, bringing a hint of rain with it. The sea slapped rhythmically at the rocks far below, here and there throwing up a fine jet of spray.
A little way back from the cliff top, a man had been crouching for the past few hours in the unfriendly cover of a gorse bush, intently observing through a pair of powerful perspective glasses the entire area surrounding the hut which stood in that isolated spot. As far as he could tell, the hut was empty. No one had come near it throughout his long and somewhat painful vigil.
Now at last he ventured to leave his hiding place, cursing softly as thorns caught at his bare hands. Still keeping a sharp look-out, he made his way to the seaward side of the hut and peered cautiously in through the window.
The light was too poor for much of the interior to be visible, but he could see no traces of occupation. Encouraged by this, he returned to the door, and set himself to the comparatively simple task of picking the lock. He did not relax his vigilance meanwhile.
A grey haze was settling over the landscape, turning trees and bushes into dark shadows and blurring the rise and fall of the hills against the skyline. It was not an evening to invite strollers along the cliffs; anyone abroad must be on business, not pleasure.
It took him only a few moments to unfasten the padlock, and gain an entrance. He closed the door and made his way cautiously over to the window, looking for something to drape over it so that he could make use of the lantern he had brought with him. He saw there was no need; the window was fitted with a wooden shutter, which he closed. He hung his lantern on a hook in the wall, and turned his attention to the contents of the hut.
He found nothing unexpected. The lantern which had intrigued Miss Thorne was of a type which he had seen before in one or two of the isolated spots which from time to time he frequented. He remembered that there had been one at Rye, and that the smugglers whose property it was had given him some assistance in the mission on which he had been engaged while he was there. Undoubtedly this lantern, too, was owned by a gang of smugglers. It was no surprise to him to discover that there was smuggling going on at Crowle, for he had suspected it all along. The suspicion had soon been confirmed on his arrival in the village, when he had tried to find a lodging for himself and his helpers. Not wishing to appear in the public eye himself, he had sent one of his men to make the necessary inquiries. The report indicated that Crowle was an inhospitable place. The Martlet Inn never took in guests, and it seemed that no money could buy a bed for a stranger in any of the village homes. After some trouble, they had found an abandoned cottage in a remote spot about half a mile from the village, and here they made their headquarters. Farnham, however, spent much of his time in the grounds of Crowle Manor, where he found plenty of temporary hiding places in the outbuildings, which were not very much used by the household staff. The two ladies at the Manor had been kept under constant surveillance since their departure from Lewes, so far without result. They had met no one to whom they could have passed on the packet, and Farnham now felt certain that it was not in their possession. That left Mrs. Wood or the pedlar. Mrs. Wood, he knew, had gone to Brighton, closely attended without her knowledge by another of Farnham’s helpers. It seemed most probable that, if she had indeed been involved in the business, her part was now done. For his money, thought Farnham, the pedlar was the man to watch. But where the devil was he? If he had arrived in the village, he was lying very low, for there had been no sign of him so far.
Not for the first time, he speculated about the identity of J. Martin, of Crowle Manor. Tactful and costly investigation had shown that there was no one of that name employed there. Possibly Mr. Martin was an infrequent visitor; smugglers carried more than one kind of cargo from the shores of France. To recover those documents was of the first importance, but it was also essential to put an end to the activities of this unknown gentleman. He frowned. If the pedlar was in possession of the packet, as seemed most likely, the obvious move to make was to track him down and take him into custody. But to do this would be to lose the opportunity of capturing the mysterious Mr. Martin. Sooner or later, the man must come to Crowle Manor, for that, Farnham knew, was the place appointed for these two to meet. By keeping a constant watch on the Manor, it should be possible eventually not only to recover the precious packet but also put both Martin and the pedlar out of what was doubtless a most profitable line of business for them.
Where did Elizabeth Thorne come into all this, he wondered? She could not have been the courier originally charged with the task of conveying the packet from London, or she would have passed it on to Potts at the White Hart without delay once the pedlar had made her aware of his complicity. Yet it had been at one time in her possession, for she had owned as much two nights ago in Lewes, when Farnham had confronted her in her room. Could she have come by it accidentally? This scarcely seemed feasible, yet more unlikely still was the notion that she had stolen it from Mrs. Wood for reasons of her own. What kind of reasons could there be? Not for the first time he felt that he must have another interview with Miss Thorne.
As these thoughts ran through his mind, he was examining the contents of the hut with all his accustomed thoroughness, moving sundry objects to make quite certain that they concealed nothing of greater interest to him. That was how he came to discover a trap door in the floor, with a round iron handle sunk into a socket in the wood. His glance sharpened. Quickly he cleared the litter from around the door, then, seizing the handle, gave a sharp tug. The trap door opened readily, as though on greased hinges, and he found himself looking down a flight of wooden steps.
He jumped to his feet and seized the lantern from the wall. Adjusting the shutters so that only a glimmer of light would show, he fastened the lantern to a leather strap which he wore about his waist. It was a device which allowed him
to have both hands free to deal with any emergency which might arise, and it had stood him in good stead on previous hazardous occasions. Leaving the trap door open, he began to descend the steps.
He had to go very slowly, as the thin light from his lantern did little to dispel the surrounding gloom. The steps appeared to be sturdy, though, and provided adequate footing. As he descended, a dank smell came to his nostrils; and not far off he could hear the hiss and rattle of shingle flung to and fro by the tide. He soon realized that he was going down into a cave which had an outlet to the sea.
When he reached the bottom of the steps, he stood still for a moment, listening for any other sound than that of the sea. Presently, he unhooked his lantern, adjusting it so that it gave full light, and raised it above his head. As well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, he thought; anyone who was in the cave must already have seen the glimmer of light as he descended. He braced himself for an attack, but none came. Evidently nobody was in the cave at present.
He moved here and there with the lantern, looking curiously about him. It was not a large cave; the staircase descended from its highest point, and elsewhere the height of the roof varied from places where he could stand upright with ease to others where he was obliged to stoop. Several lanterns were suspended from hooks in the walls, and sturdy coils of rope lay on the floor which was dry. Two small rowing boats were beached against one side. Close to these, he found an opening through which grey light filtered. He stooped a little to enter, and found himself in a narrow passage which bent round at an angle before finally emerging beneath an overhang of jutting rock right at the foot of the cliff.
Pausing to close down the shutters of his lantern, he stepped out of the narrow mouth of the passage on to the few feet of rock and shingle which had been exposed by the receding tide. From the decaying seaweed round his feet, he guessed that the sea rarely came up as far as the entrance to the passage; that was why the floor of the cave had been dry. It was twilight now, and he gazed across the grey waters which merged on the horizon into the misty sky. Somewhere across that expanse of restless sea lay the cause of all this trouble. His mouth took on a grim line. He must not loiter here, now that he had seen all there was to see. He still had work to do. He turned, stooping to enter the passage once more, at the same time providing himself with a thin beam of light from the lantern. He was half-way along the passage, just about to round the bend, when he pulled up sharply.
The sound of voices drifted down from the cave.
He closed down the light completely, and drew a pistol from his pocket. It would not suit his plans to shoot anyone at this stage of the business, but he might be forced to do it in self-defence. If these proved to be the smuggling gentry — and who else would be here — ? they certainly would not welcome a stranger in their haunts. Already the open outer door and the trap door must have warned them that there was someone here.
He stood still for a moment, listening. Then, as he heard the voices and footsteps coming closer, he changed his mind and pocketed the pistol. If possible, he would avoid a confrontation with the smugglers. But where the devil could he find cover in this spot?
He groped his way back to the beach, relying on his memory for avoiding the hazards of jagged rocks which he had passed before. It was almost dark outside, and a wind was blowing off the sea. If he flung himself flat on the beach against the foot of the cliffs, would he escape notice? A ray of light from the passage warned him that this would be hopeless. He could not go far enough in the time left to him, and their lanterns would soon reveal anyone lurking close at hand.
Desperately his eye searched the cliff face for any sign of a cleft or hole big enough to conceal a man, but he could see nothing of the kind. And then his roving glance fell upon the overhang of rock which partly concealed the entrance to the passage. It sloped forward at a sharp angle from the cliff face, but an active man with strong muscles might manage to cling there for a time. There was no certainty that he could escape notice, even so; if they chanced to look upwards he would be discovered, but it was the best he could do in the time he had.
He gripped the overhang and swung himself up, perching precariously on tiptoe right on the edge. Gradually, he straightened himself, searching for firm hand- and footholds that would enable him to flatten his body against the rock. He managed to achieve this more or less satisfactorily just in time, for at that moment a light appeared beneath him, and two figures stepped out of the passage on to the beach, only a yard or two from where he was perched.
‘O’ course someone’s been here,’ growled a voice. ‘Why else was the trap open? Tell me that.’
Farnham twisted his head slightly, and saw that two men had come out on to the beach. He recognised the one holding the lantern at once; it was Potts, the pedlar.
‘Someone’s been here, right enough,’ agreed Potts. ‘But the question is, has he gone or is he still here? And more than that, who is he and what’s he after?’
They walked some distance along the beach in the direction of the Gap. Farnham could see their lantern bobbing to and fro as they searched for him among the rocks which lay scattered at the foot of the cliffs. When he judged they were far enough away, he jumped down from his perch and darted into the passage, flexing his aching muscles.
He approached the cave with caution, uncertain if others might be there; but although he found a lantern burning, the place was empty.
He glanced at the trap door, and saw that it was still open, as he had left it. Soft footed, he climbed the steps and peered cautiously over the top into the hut.
Satisfied that no one was there, he emerged from the opening and crossed quickly to the door. He let himself out, and was about to close the door quietly behind him before making good his escape, when he changed his mind. Instead, he left the door a fraction ajar; not sufficiently, he hoped, to be noticed by anyone inside the hut, but perhaps enough to allow him to see and hear what was happening from outside. He stationed himself against the wall beside the door, and experimentally put his eye to the crack.
The results were disappointing; he could see very little. Nothing daunted, he remained where he was, flattening himself back against the wall.
He was not exactly expecting to see anything of importance; but it was possible that when the men returned to the hut, as they were almost certain to do before long, he might succeed in overhearing something of interest to him. It seemed a reasonable assumption that they had already made a search for him above ground before going down below. They were not likely to do so a second time. Even if they did, it was now dark enough for him to stand a good chance of eluding them on this open ground.
He had not long to wait. Soon he heard the trap door slam and the shuffling of boots on the floorboards of the hut.
‘He’s cleared off, whoever he was.’ The gruff voice carried clearly enough to Farnham’s ears. ‘Don’t like it, though, Jem. There was a cove round the village a couple o’ nights since, seekin’ a bed. Foreigner, they said, not from these parts by his speech. I’d give a deal to know who ’tis as takes such an interest in our doings.’
‘I’m with you there, Reuben.’ It was the voice of Potts. ‘I bain’t superstitious in general, but this business o’ mine seemed fated from the start. First of all, that tarnation female who was bringin’ me the letter from Lunnon gets the jitters about somethin’ that happened on the journey down, and what does she do but shove it in a book belongin’ to two other females what was in the coach. A damn silly thing to do, for she might ’ave knowed it was all a fuss over naught, and no end o’ trouble to get the letter back again afterwards. But that’s women for ye — never trust’em in business.’
Farnham controlled a start. So that was it! The woman Mrs. Wood had been the courier, after all, and the packet had come into Elizabeth’s possession by accident. And he had accused her in such terms — Good God, what must she think of him? Could she ever forgive him? There seemed small chance of it. He brushed aside these disturbing thoughts,
and strained his ears to follow the rest of the conversation.
‘Ye need a drink, that’s what, brother, and I reckon we’ve earned one, chasing after yon nosey parker. I must be off soon to round up the lads, and get together horses and a cart or two for when the boats arrive. But they’ll not come much afore three, so there’s plenty o’ time for a drop o’ grog. I reckon ye’re not in a hurry either to get off up to the Manor, as yer man won’t be there for long enough. What d’ye say?’
Potts murmured an assent. Presently Farnham heard the gurgle of liquid being poured out, soon followed by a smacking of lips and prolonged sighs of satisfaction.
‘Ah, that’s better,’ remarked Potts. ‘But the worst of it was, Reuben, them two females was none other than the two that’s come to stay at the Manor. And they found that letter right enough, for they’d put it in another hiding place when that half-witted woman Wood went to try and get it back. No end o’ trouble she had; but get it she did at last, though before she brought it to me, someone — and I don’t know who, no more than fly in the air — someone comes out to the loft where I’m sleepin’, and lays me out, good and proper.’
‘Did they, now? Well, might ’ave been a pickpocket, Jem. Ye carry a fair bit o’ stuff around in that pack o’ yourn — must be a temptation to light-fingered folk.’
‘That’s what I thought, till I find there’s naught missing. But I could tell this cove ’ad been through my pack — ay, and my pockets, too, for all I can tell, though I can’t swear to that, for all was in place, just as I’d had it before. But one or two little things was different in the pack, see?’
There was a short silence; evidently Reuben was thinking this over.
‘Well, I’ll admit it sounds queer,’ he said at last. ‘But it bain’t likely that this cove who’s been ’ere tonight is the same as attacked ye at Lewes. Ye’ll take another mug, Jem?’ Another drink was poured.
Letters For A Spy Page 12
