‘Unless it’s the law,’ replied Potts, slowly. ‘But I can’t hardly think they’d go about things in that kind o’ way. Besides, who’s to know I was here, or to connect us with each other? We take care not to be seen abroad together.’
‘Ye takes care,’ Reuben reminded him, with a hint of hostility.
‘D’ye blame me? It don’t do for me to be known as an associate o’ smugglers. My business is too ticklish to get mixed up in anything o’ that kind.’
Reuben snorted. ‘Hark at ye! As though being courier to Monsoor Martin and’is bunch o’ Frogs was a cut above an honest bit o’ freebootin’, which never hurt nobody.’
‘Ye’re in that as deep as I am, brother. Ye takes’em to and fro across the Channel, don’t ye?’
‘Well, what’s it matter?’ demanded Reuben, truculently.
‘We gets good pay, don’t we? Tell me anything else that pays ’alf as well, and I’m yer man for it. Drink up and take another.’
Potts swallowed noisily.
‘Oh, ay, ye’re in the right of it there, Reuben. No, I don’t hardly think it can be the law, nor yet the Customs. D’ye reckon it might be someone put on by them two females at the Manor to find out what goes on here? Ye said they was pokin’ about in the hut yesterday.’
‘I don’t ’ardly think they was pokin’ about,’ answered Reuben, thoughtfully. ‘From what I could see o’ them — though I’ad to duck down below quick — they was just lookin’ for somewhere to shelter from the rain, and this was the only place handy. And me havin’ left the door unfastened, like a fool, for I’d only slipped in for a few minutes to bring some things for tonight’s work.’
‘Oh, well, if ye thinks that’s all,’ Potts said, in relief. ‘But I got a turn this morning, I can tell ye — I almost rode into ’em. I avoided the village, same as always when I arrives in daylight, and rode up to the Manor by the back way, thinking to sneak into the hidden room there that Monsoor Martin uses when he’s in these parts, the same where I shall ’and over the packet to him tonight. I’m not supposed to go there except by arrangement with him, but I reckon what the eye don’t see the ’eart can’t grieve over, and it’s a fine place to lie low. I intended to stay there until after dark, then go to your place in the village for a bite and a sup, and back again near the time as he’s expected to land. He’d never ’ave been any the wiser. But them tarnation females scared me off, so I came ’ere instead.’
‘Well, ye knew they was there,’ pointed out Reuben reasonably. ‘Pity ye didn’t come straight to Crowle from Lewes, Jem, then ye’d’ave been safely tucked away in that hidey ’ole before ever they arrived.’
‘I suppose ye’d have come straight to Crowle, would ye?’ jeered Potts. ‘After what ’appened to me at the White Hart an’ all? Well, if so, ye’d be a fool, brother, and not the man for a chancy game such as I plays. No, ye stick to yer smugglin’, me lad, and leave the clever one o’ the family to work that needs nerve and wits.’
‘Clever, eh?’ shouted Reuben, bringing his fist down with a thump on something hard. ‘I suppose ye don’t reckon as it needs nerve and wits to run this freebootin’ business, then, eh? Why, ye cocky little bastard, ye, I’ve a good mind to serve ye as ye was served in Lewes, damn yer eyes!’
Farnham could see that a family quarrel was well under way, aggravated no doubt by the liquor that both men had been imbibing so freely. He wondered if he was likely to learn much more in the circumstances, and was just deciding to leave when a gust of wind caught at the open door and shut it with a slam.
At once he took to his heels, but a crack of light from the door warned him that they were opening it. He flung himself down flat on the ground, thinking that he would more readily escape notice than if he continued to run. By the light from the door, he saw the two men emerge; but evidently they did not wish to show lights on the top of the cliff, for they were not using the lantern, and soon closed the door again.
He waited, motionless, listening for their approach. If they came too close, he must make a dash for freedom, but he would prefer not to disclose his presence if possible.
After a few minutes, the light from the door showed again briefly as the two men went back into the hut. Evidently they were satisfied that no one had been there, and that one of themselves must have been responsible for leaving the door ajar so that it slammed in the wind.
So much the better, Farnham thought maliciously: it would no doubt add fuel to the family squabble that had been brewing previously.
He smiled grimly as he went in search of his horse and took the way back to Crowle Manor.
Chapter 16
THE SECRET AGENT
An owl’s cry sounded from the trees close to the house. Hearing the signal, the watcher turned towards it, joining Farnham in the shadows. For a time the two men talked together in low tones.
‘After you’ve sent Taylor off for the dragoons, return to me here,’ instructed Farnham, presently. ‘Somehow or other, I must locate this secret room before our friends come to keep their rendezvous. If we try to take them outside, there’s a chance that one or other of ’em will get away, with only the two of us. Tell Taylor to ride as if the devil’s after him. Now I must find a way in.’
‘There’s something I spotted earlier on in my watch,’ said the other man, pausing as he turned on his heel. ‘It looks like a door, but there’s no latch that I could find. It’s in the side of the house nearest to us, against the chimney, hidden by the creeper that grows there.’
‘I’ll investigate. Anyone sleep that side of the house?’
‘The housekeeper’s room is on the other side, at the back. I saw a light there some time back. The abigail’s in an attic room, where I can’t say.’
‘Evidently you’re not on form,’ jibed Farnham.
The other snorted in disgust. ‘The wrong side of forty, and about as cuddlesome as a porcupine! I’ll be off, then.’
It was quite dark, for there was no moon, but Farnham approached the house with caution. After two days of constant watch, he knew the terrain well. There was no window at this side of the house, only a blank cream-coloured wall with a chimney running up the centre of it, so there was no danger of being overlooked. He trained a thin beam of light on the area at the base of the chimney.
At first, he could see nothing, so he gently lifted the creeper aside. He found it came quite readily, as though used to such treatment. He played the ray from his lantern over the area underneath, and was able to trace the outline of a narrow panel of wood painted the same colour as the surrounding bricks. It was large enough to admit a man, but there was no way of opening it that he could see.
He ventured to allow himself a little more light, and followed the outline of the door round several times. The last time, he noticed a small indentation low down on the right-hand side, only big enough to take a finger tip. He inserted his index finger, and pressed firmly. There was a slight click, and the door slid back.
He thrust the lantern into the aperture. It was very little wider than the door, and plentifully festooned with spiders’ webs. Carefully stepping over the trailing stems of the creeper, he entered and raised the lantern to look about him. The cavity went back only a few feet, and out of it rose a steep flight of wooden steps enclosed by walls on either side.
He nodded: a staircase up the side of the chimney, and no doubt leading to the secret room.
Before mounting the stairs, he stopped for long enough to master the mechanism that controlled the sliding door. He reached out and pulled the creeper back in place before finally closing it. Then he adjusted his lantern to give full light, and turned to climb the stairs.
A man needed to be in condition for this form of exercise, he reflected; if the staircase led to a hiding place that had been used by a priest in the bad old days of religious persecution, then it must be hoped that the priest had not been elderly. But no doubt there would be another way into the secret room from inside the house, and this stairway would have
been used chiefly as an exit.
At last the stairs ended abruptly, and he found himself facing another door. This time, his hand quickly found the mechanism that controlled it, and it slid smoothly back. He stepped into the room beyond, closing the panel behind him.
It was a tiny room, scarcely six feet square. Against one wall was a narrow truckle bed with a chair beside it. On the opposite side was a small washstand with a wall cupboard above it. There was another full length cupboard in the wall opposite the entrance to the stairs. There was no door leading out into the house, as far as Farnham could see.
He set his lantern down and inspected the furniture and fittings. He found two packed bags under the bed, but although they held a quantity of male attire, they contained no papers of any kind. Pushing them back, he turned his attention to the washstand and the cupboard above it. Here he found everything a man might need who proposed to camp out in the room for several days. He cast an envious eye on a pie which rested on one of the shelves in the cupboard. Its appetising brown crust tempted him sorely, for he had not eaten for some hours, but he forced himself to resist the temptation. He must leave no sign that anyone else had been here for his quarry to find.
He closed the doors of the washstand and cupboard carefully, and turned to inspect the large cupboard in the other wall. The door opened readily, revealing a small space with a row of hooks along the back wall, presumably for hanging up clothes.
Farnham frowned. If a man had somewhere to hang his clothes, why leave them bundled up in valises under the bed? So that he could move out quickly, if need be? Possibly; all the same, a clothes cupboard did seem an unnecessary luxury in a hideaway such as this, and surely concealed somewhere in the room must be a way into the main part of the house.
Stepping inside the cupboard, he ran his fingers over the wall at the back, and found that it was no plaster as he had supposed, but wood. After that it took him only seconds to discover that it opened in a similar way to the other two panels through which he had passed.
He snatched up the lantern, and stepping over the threshold of the cupboard, shone his light round the room beyond. He was standing in one of the attics at the back of the house. It was crammed with all kinds of junk — weary armchairs with broken legs and torn upholstery, discarded pictures and ornaments, a battered wooden settle. His eye took in these details before he glanced at the dormer window and cautiously shut down his lantern. The pedlar might arrive at any time, and it would not do for him to see a light in this part of the house. But this cluttered attic would provide splendid cover when the moment came to take him and the spy Martin into custody.
Farnham stepped back into the priest’s hole and gave a quick look round to assure himself that nothing showed signs of being disturbed. Satisfied on this score, he returned to the attic, closing both doors of the cupboard behind him. Then he began to thread his way through the clutter of the room towards the door. He had almost reached it when his foot caught in the rocker of a child’s wooden cradle, setting it noisily in action. He put out his hand at once to stop it, cursing softly. Reaching the door, he opened it cautiously, and peered round.
He drew back quickly. Farther along the passage, the door of the next room had opened. He had just time to glimpse a woman coming out with a candle in her hand before he softly closed the door and took cover behind the settle. He closed the shutters right down on his lantern and crouched in the darkness, waiting.
After a few moments, he heard the attic door opening, and the woman advanced a little way into the room.
‘Is anyone there?’ she said, quietly. She did not sound at all alarmed.
She moved forward a few paces, letting the light of her candle play as far as possible round the room. Farnham hoped that she would come no farther. She was only a few yards away from where he crouched, and he had no wish to tangle with a female. It must be Miss Thorne’s abigail; she slept in the adjoining room.
She stood there for a little while longer.
‘Perhaps it was the cat,’ he heard her murmur to herself. ‘Silly creature! Come on out, then — puss, puss!’
Farnham heartily wished that he could have conjured up a cat to oblige her, fearing now that she would search the entire room for the fictitious animal. He was beginning to work out a plan of campaign, when she seemed to lose interest, and, with another quick look about her, went out, closing the door.
He waited for some time before he ventured to look out into the passage. It was dark and deserted. Not knowing his way about the house, he risked using the lantern to help him reach the ground floor. His confederate had told him that Miss Thorne was still downstairs in the parlour at the back of the house. She had been busy writing when the curtains had been pulled, so he had said; with any luck, Farnham hoped he might find her there still. He had a great deal to say to her.
*
Elizabeth had experienced difficulty in persuading Miss Ellis that she might as well depart for East Bourne that same afternoon, but in the end she prevailed. The truth was that authorship had her in its grip. Since her session with her manuscript the previous evening, ideas had come crowding thick and fast into her mind, and she desired nothing so much at present as to be free to take up her pen again without outside distractions. Margaret knew her friend well enough to see how it was, and to feel less compunction than she might have done at leaving her in solitude.
‘At any rate, you will have the abigail to bear you company if you wish to go walking,’ she said, when it was all decided. ‘But I do beg of you, Elizabeth, not to get yourself into any foolish scrapes by letting your fancy run away with you! I shall not stay with Ernestine above three or four days, and you may send for me at any time, you know. Don’t hesitate to do so.’ She handed her a piece of paper. ‘I have written down the direction here for you.’
Elizabeth placed the paper in her writing-case, and promised to do as she was asked. Miss Ellis packed a few things with the minimum of fuss, as was her way, and set out on her short journey early in the afternoon. Soon afterwards, Elizabeth settled down to her writing in the back parlour, and grudged every interruption to it which followed.
There were more than she might have anticipated.
Tea arrived at the usual time and was not unwelcome; but when Mrs. Wilmot came in to clear away, she showed a disposition to chat. Elizabeth had scarcely succeeded in banishing her when Claudette came into the room, with a query as to which gown should be laid out for the evening. Elizabeth started to say that she would not change, as she was to dine alone; but the shocked look on the maid’s face made her decide to sacrifice a little time rather than wound such fine susceptibilities. Afterwards, she was glad, for a short while at least, that she had conceded this sartorial point.
‘I really do not mind — anything will do,’ she stated, pointedly taking up her pen again.
After that, there was peace for an hour or so, until Claudette reappeared, soft-footed as usual, to remind her mistress that it was time to dress unless she wished dinner to be served at a later hour than usual.
‘Is it really that time?’ asked Elizabeth, glancing at the clock. ‘Oh, no, I would not wish to put them to so much trouble in the kitchen — I will come upstairs at once.’
She paused only long enough to tidy her loose papers away in a folder, then rose to follow Claudette, who had already left the room. She was walking along the passage to her bedroom when she noticed Mrs. Wilmot about to ascend the stairs leading to the attic bedrooms. The housekeeper was carrying a tray covered with a cloth, and it appeared to be heavy. She faltered slightly once, and Elizabeth heard the chink of china. She had no time to stop and wonder about this, for Claudette was waiting at the bedroom door and she at once took charge, pouring warm water into the washbasin and afterwards helping Elizabeth out of her gown. She certainly knew how to make one feel comfortable, reflected Elizabeth; but what a pity that she felt it necessary to be always in attendance, as she evidently did. At home, Elizabeth had shared a maid with her siste
r Anne, and was not at all used to so much attention. She found it irked her, but she was too kind-hearted to show her impatience.
‘You look delightful, madam,’ remarked Claudette, later, when she was twisting Elizabeth’s warm-brown hair into a classical knot on the top of her head.
Elizabeth regarded herself thoughtfully in the mirror. She was wearing a high-waisted gown of blue muslin, embroidered with sprigs of white. Round her neck on a simple gold chain was a blue locket containing a miniature of her mother. Her eyes looked a deeper blue than usual, reflecting the colour of her dress.
‘Do I?’ she asked, laughing softly. ‘If so, it is your doing, and quite wasted, I fear, for no one will see your handiwork.’
She ate her solitary meal and returned to the parlour to resume work on her manuscript. But even now she was not to be free of interruptions, for Claudette, who was sitting in the small ante-room doing some mending, came in several times on errands which seemed to Elizabeth quite unnecessary.
Her final appearance was to bring in the tea-tray at a quarter to ten, announcing that she did so because Mrs. Wilmot had gone to bed.
‘And so may you,’ Elizabeth told her. ‘Your eyes must be quite tired, doing that fine work by candlelight, and I shall not require you any more tonight.’
‘But, madam,’ Claudette protested, ‘I must wait up to help you with your hair.’
‘Not at all. I may very well do it myself — indeed, I have mostly been accustomed to. Good night.’
Claudette’s expression indicated that this was not at all the kind of thing she had been used to in her previous situations; nevertheless, she was obliged to accept her dismissal. She bade her mistress good night and went away, presumably to gather up her work and go to bed as she was bidden. Elizabeth gave a sigh of relief, drank her tea, and quickly resumed her writing.
Letters For A Spy Page 13
