The village of Crowle was shrouded in darkness, as might have been expected at past one o’clock in the morning. Yet there were furtive signs of life stirring. Dark figures crept from almost every cottage; at the back of the Martlet Inn a horse with padded hoofs was being harnessed to a cart with cloth twisted about the wheel rims, while ponies from nearby farms stood by patiently, waiting as if they understood what they would shortly be expected to do.
At Crowle Manor, the hitherto quiet stables showed similar stealthy signs of movement. The horses that were led out also had padded hoofs; in spite of this Farnham, uneasily keeping a prolonged vigil in the unaccountable absence of his lieutenant, heard them moving along the drive and guessed where they were bound, and why the familiar beat of hoofs was missing.
He wondered what the devil his man Denning could be doing; he should have been here long since. Without him, it would be difficult if not impossible to take Potts and the spy Martin into custody; and there could be no certainty that the military would arrive in time. He had hoped to be inside the house before this, near to Elizabeth. She had tried to put a brave face on things, but he knew how very nervous she felt. Her alarm was natural enough, but he could not seriously feel that she had anything to fear. All the same, he would prefer to be within reach of her; but it was out of the question to desert his post here until Denning arrived to relieve him.
As these uneasy thoughts crossed his mind, he caught the faint sound of a twig snapping under foot from the trees behind. This must be his man at last. He waited for the owl’s cry that was their arranged signal.
It did not come. He was about to give it himself, when some extra sense warned him against it. He was standing in the shelter of some bushes which overlooked the entrance to the secret passage. He remained where he was, motionless, listening intently.
No other sound followed the first, which he now began to think must have been made by some animal on its nocturnal maraudings. He was about to move so as to ease his tensed muscles, when he heard close at hand the soft padding of footsteps, and a moment later, a dark shadow brushed past his hiding place and moved stealthily towards the hidden door.
He knew then that this could not be Denning and was thankful that he had refrained from giving the signal. Was it Potts or the Frenchman? It was impossible to identify anyone on a moonless night such as this, but the odds were that it was Potts.
With eyes accustomed to the darkness, Farnham watched the shadowy figure pause a moment before the secret door, then vanish quickly from sight. He resisted an urge to look at his watch. The last time he had done so, it had been a little after one; that must have been half an hour or more since. Denning had been gone two hours on an errand that should have taken him half an hour at most. Something must have gone wrong.
He made a quick reassessment of his plans. Only an incurable optimist could suppose that one man could capture single-handed two desperate villains like Potts and Martin. From the first, he had been concerned to plan matters so that both men should be safely in the secret room before any attempt upon them was made. Now it looked as if the only possibility of success lay in tackling one at a time. If Martin should in some way be scared off by this means, it was a hazard that must be faced. By far the most important thing was to recover the documents, and Potts was the man who had them in his possession.
All the same, he was reluctant to abandon his original scheme just yet. Feeling it safe to do so now that Potts had been gone for some minutes, he consulted his watch briefly by a tiny gleam from the lantern. It was ten minutes to two. He had heard the men at the hut say that the smugglers could not be expected much before three o’clock, and the spy Martin had to make his way here from the beach after landing. He could surely afford to wait until half past two for Denning to appear.
*
Elizabeth stirred, becoming conscious of something tied about her mouth in an acutely uncomfortable way. She tried to raise her hands to deal with this, only to find that they were firmly tied, too; and behind her back, so that she could not bring them to her assistance.
It took a few moments for her to realise where she was and what had befallen her. Then she recalled the struggle with Claudette and hitting her head on the desk as the abigail forced her to the floor. She was still lying there, she discovered; the place on her head felt sore, her limbs were cramped and the gag was cutting into her mouth. It must have been Claudette who had secured her in this fashion to prevent her from warning Robert that the abigail had overheard their conversation. If she could only lay her hands on the minx! But much good it would do her, she reflected ruefully, a moment afterwards, for in the recent tussle she had seen only too clearly who held the advantage.
Robert! A warning bell clanged in her still hazy mind. He had hoped to trap Potts and the spy in the secret room, but now Claudette knew this, the trap would become an ambush for the King’s men. Somehow she must reach Robert and warn him that his raid would be expected.
She tried to move, emitting a choked groan at the effort. A second attempt brought the welcome discovery that her feet had not been tied. She was lying on the floor not far from the desk which had caused her injury. If she could manoeuvre herself against this it might be possible to work herself into a sitting position, and from thence to her feet.
She was about to make an attempt to put this plan into action, when she heard the door opening. Thinking it safer to feign unconsciousness for the moment, she closed her eyes.
She heard two people come into the room, and a moment later, one of them was bending over her. She knew it was Claudette, for the abigail’s voice sounded close to her.
‘She’s still unconscious. Nom de Dieu, I hope I haven’t killed her!’
‘Fustian! Tis only a swoon.’ She felt herself turned over, and rough hands explored her hair, looking for the injury that had knocked her out. With real heroism, she suppressed a wince as Potts — for she recognised his voice immediately — found it. ‘See, it’s not even broken the skin,’ he continued, displaying a large bruise at the back of Elizabeth’s head. ‘It’s wonder it’s kept her out for so long, but female’s is delicate things. Still, it’s as well you didn’t kill her, for though it may come to that in the end, that’s for Monsoor Martin to say. He don’t like anything o’ that nature bein’ done without his orders, as ye’ll soon learn, even if ye don’ know now.’
Claudette sprang to her feet. ‘You think you can tell me anything about my cher cousin Jean, you?’ she asked scornfully. ‘You others — the hen-witted female who calls herself Mrs. Wood who kept house with me in London, and you who carry messages for one and another — you can never know him as I do! Certainly he does not like anyone to be killed near to his hiding places, for a corpse draws attention, and that is something he does not seek. But I do not see how we can keep this female alive,’ she finished, in a ruminative tone. ‘She knows too much, and in a few days her female companion will be returning. And Jean will be forced to wait here for a day or so before he can get a passage back to France.’
‘You said these two are lovers, the secret agent and this female,’ put in Potts. ‘It all depends what Monsoor Martin thinks o’ course but seems to me if we could make it look as though they’d run away together—’
Claudette laughed. ‘Excellent! My friend, you are not so stupid as you appear. But first we must catch the man, and that may not be so easy. As I told you, there are two of them—’
‘Not now,’ replied Potts, chuckling. ‘Someone was nosing around the hut while Reuben and me was there. On the way back to the village, we comes on a horseman riding along. Rueben reckons it won’t be any o’ his lot so we gives chase. A fine dance he leads us, but we caught him at last and pops him a few questions. He tells some rigmarole about losing his road and wanting to get to East Bourne, that wouldn’t have deceived a babe in arms. We was in two minds to slit his throat there an’ then, but thinks better of it because of Monsoor Martin, so we knocks him on the ’ead and flings ’im into the cellar at the “Martlet”, w
here he’s likely getting himself drunk this very minute, if he’s any sense. But Rueben swears he was the same man as came round seekin’ a bed in the village a couple o’ days back, so there’s no doubt he’s the partner to this agent o’ yourn.’
‘Very likely, but all the same he’s not the man who was watching you when you were in the hut. That was this other man — the one she calls Robert.’ She aimed a kick at the seemingly unconscious Elizabeth. ‘How I despise her! All the time she thought I was dancing attendance on her, she never seemed to guess that my real object was to make sure she didn’t find out too much. But they are stupid, the English — they trust people.’
‘Not if they’re in business, they don’t. But how d’ye know that it was this Robert fellow who was round the hut, and not t’other one?’
‘I heard him tell her so. I couldn’t hear all he said, more’s the pity, but that part was clear enough. So was the plan to take you and Jean in the priest’s hole — one man was to hide in the attic, the other to follow up the secret staircase after you were both seen to enter.’
‘Ye’re certain there was no more than two of ’em?’ insisted Potts.
‘Quite certain. I remember Miss Thorne saying how alarmed she was at the thought of there being only two of them to tackle two such desperate characters as you and Jean.’
‘Ye’re positive this man Robert’s not in the house now?’
She hesitated. ‘Not positive, but I heard him say that he intended to wait outside until the other man returned. Then he went out through this window.’
‘He’ll have a long wait, if so. But I’ll just take a look upstairs to make sure. You stay here with madam.’
Elizabeth’s heart sank as she heard this. It put an end to all her hopes of being able to free herself, and moreover she did not know how much longer she could feign unconsciousness. Now that there was nothing else to take her attention, Claudette would not readily be deceived.
But the abigail, after one contemptuous glance at the recumbent form of her mistress, turned her attention to the writing-desk. She removed the paperweight from the folder which contained Elizabeth’s manuscript, and taking out some of the pages, started to read them.
Elizabeth raged inwardly. To have her most cherished and private possessions violated by the glance of this creature hurt her far more than any of the indignities she has so far suffered. In her indignation she could lie still no longer, and gave a violent lurch towards the desk.
Claudette looked up. ‘So you’ve come to, madam, have you?’ she said, with a sneer. ‘Well, better for you if you hadn’t, as you’ll soon find.’
She dropped the papers and came to stand over Elizabeth, taunting her with all the pent-up malice which years of unwilling servitude had endangered in her. Elizabeth soon learned that the abigail’s employment in certain high households had been a means to the end of obtaining information for the French, and not a matter of choice. She listened in shocked surprise while the stream of vituperation poured out of the woman; it was her first experience of a bitter hatred such as this, and she found it terrifying.
After a few minutes she managed to get her fear under control sufficiently to wonder if she could not turn the other woman’s emotional state to good account. But what could she do, handicapped as she was? The answer came to her in a flash and she acted upon it.
Suddenly she drew up her legs and kicked out at Claudette with all the force she could muster.
The woman staggered, clutched at the air, and fell at Elizabeth’s side.
At once Elizabeth rolled over on top of her, hoping that the sudden weight would deprive her of her senses for long enough for Elizabeth to try and free herself.
It was a gallant attempt that could have small chance of success. Claudette was both heavier and stronger than her opponent, besides being free. She had flung Elizabeth from her and was starting to her feet to begin reprisals when Potts came into the room.
‘What the devil — ?’ he began, seizing Claudette’s arm as she was about to aim a blow at Elizabeth. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘This hell cat!’ panted the abigail. ‘She kicked me over, by God, she’ll pay for it!’
He gave her a shake. ‘Never mind about that now — there’s no time for it. Ye’ll get yer own back soon, never fear. Now, listen. Yon cove isn’t up there yet, but I reckon he soon will be, when he gets fed up o’ waitin’ for his pal. So we’ll fix a little trap up for ’im, see, and this young lady ’ere can bait it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why, he’ll come up the stairs and into the secret room, won’t he? And if I’m there waitin’, we’ll make a fight o’ it, and likely I’ll get in first. But just to make sure, we could put something there that’ll draw ’is attention away from everything else, couldn’t we? Then I can take ’im easy, and by surprise.’
‘You mean her?’
‘What else? Now, just you take the candle and show madam up to her bedchamber.’
He gave a chuckle, and, bending over Elizabeth, tossed her up over his shoulder as easily as though she had been a sack of vegetables. She tried to kick, but he clamped her legs firmly with one arm as he made for the door.
Effortlessly, he carried her up the two flights of stairs to the attic, then stood aside for Claudette to open the secret door. They entered the hidden room and he threw Elizabeth roughly on the narrow bed.
‘Lie there, my pretty ladybird, till yer lover comes to ye,’ he said, mockingly.
Then he turned to Claudette, who was advancing threateningly on her mistress.
‘As for ye — out.’ He pointed to the door which led into the attic.
She looked rebellious for a moment, then obeyed. He followed her out, carefully closing the outer door of the cupboard, but not the panel behind it, which led into the attic.
Left alone, Elizabeth tried desperately to think of something — anything — that could save Robert from the ambush that awaited him.
Chapter 20
THE END OF A SECRET AGENT
Farnham looked at his watch again. It was five and twenty to three. Reluctantly he decided that he could not afford to wait any longer for Denning. Something serious must have happened to delay him all this time; his help could no longer be counted upon. Any further delay would chance the arrival of Martin on the scene, and then there would be two men to deal with instead of one.
He fastened the lantern to his belt, looked to the priming of his pistol and holding it in his left hand, glided through the shadows to the secret door. His fingers found the catch and he stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. Relying on memory and his sense of touch, he cautiously ascended the stairs until he came to the second sliding panel. Then he went back a few steps, until by bending forward he could just reach the catch. As the door slid open, he ducked his head and waited.
Nothing happened, although he could see that there was a light in the room. Transferring his pistol to his right hand, he cocked it and pointed it into the room, cautiously raising his head a little so that he could see inside.
The light came from a lantern hanging on the wall over the bed; it was shining full on a recumbent form which lay there. Farnham took one look at the tumbled brown locks and dishevelled blue gown trailing over the bed and on to the floor, and his heart turned over. Then he leapt forward, reaching Elizabeth’s side in one bound.
‘My darling! In God’s name, what’s happened to you?’
She had only one way to warn him, and that was with her eyes. She darted a fearful glance at the cupboard, and he understood at once. Keeping his pistol trained in that direction, he moved so that he was half-facing towards her and half towards the danger.
‘Whoever did this to you, my love, they shall pay for it!’ he said between clenched teeth. ‘Turn towards the wall, and I’ll soon get you free.’
She rolled over, and he worked at the knot that secured the gag over her mouth. He was almost as adept with his left hand as with his right, and in a few seco
nds his strong fingers had untied it. He pulled the cloth gently away from her mouth, then swore as he saw the red marks left by its pressure.
With another quick glance towards the cupboard, he began to untie her hands. He had just succeeded in working the knot free when the cupboard door was flung open.
He lept to his feet, standing in front of Elizabeth to shield her, and pointed his pistol at the cupboard, ready to shoot.
No one appeared in the aperture, but a harsh voice came from behind the open door.
‘Lay down yer pistol, or I’ll shoot the pair o’ ye.’
Farnham made no answer, but signalled to Elizabeth to crawl under the bed. She understood at once, but had some difficulty in obeying because of the stiffness in her arms after being bound. He dared not help her, but kept his eyes unflinchingly on the aperture between the two rooms, ready to shoot as soon as Potts showed any part of his body, as he must do before he could take aim with his pistol.
Evidently Potts had no mind to do this, and for the moment it was a stalemate. Meanwhile Elizabeth tumbled in a heap on to the floor behind Farnham, and painfully crawled underneath the bed.
Nothing happened for several minutes. Elizabeth was massaging her numbed wrists, while Farnham contemplated making a charge into the adjoining room.
All at once Potts thrust his head round the door and fired his pistol.
Farnham flung himself flat, at the same time firing his own weapon. The ball from the pedlar’s pistol whistled harmlessly over Farnham’s head, embedding itself in the wall; while Farnham had no better luck, as his target had appeared too briefly for his purpose. He did not pause to reload but cast the pistol aside and leapt through the opening into the adjoining room, chancing that Potts might have a second pistol ready to discharge at him.
Fortune was with him. The pedlar was just about to reload his pistol as Farnham jumped upon him, knocking it out of his grasp. The two men were soon locked together in a grim struggle, while Claudette stood, helplessly by, screaming vituperation.
Letters For A Spy Page 16
