by Mira Stables
With this in mind she decided to change her muslin dress for one of fine cambric in her favourite shade of green, more suitable for carriage exercise, spinning out the task as long as she could in the hope that any minute would bring Charles cantering along the road. This reminded her that, absorbed as she had been in Miss Smithson’s woeful condition, she had not yet thought to enquire about poor Marquis. He must be all right though, or Giles would not be sleeping so peacefully in the shade. She eyed him almost resentfully, and was quite surprised, when she finally made her way downstairs, to find him rising to greet her as though he had not been asleep at all. His hearing must be acute indeed if the sound of her little kid slippers had roused him.
It was disappointing to find that he did not look with favour on her proposed expedition. Master Charles, he explained, strolling with her towards the gate where they would not be overheard, had instructed him to look after her. But his first duty was to keep watch on Sir Nicholas and the landlord, and this he could best do by staying where he was. Though he was diffident about saying it as bluntly as he would have liked, he did not think Nell ought to go visiting, and whatever Emma wanted with her must just wait.
In her heart Nell felt that he was probably right, but she was weary of inaction and did not see that she could possibly come to any harm driving along a couple of miles of quiet country road. She need not even be alone. Jim would be only too glad to go with her.
“Not handling the master’s cattle he won’t,” said Giles, thinking that would be the end of the matter.
“Of course not,” returned Nell, very cool and dignified, “the cob will be rested by now. Jim can drive me in the gig. There can be no objection to that.”
Giles scratched his head. “I don’t like it, Miss Nell. If I could take you myself ’twould be different. But I reckon I ought to wait here till Master Charles shows his front. Those were my orders, and I don’t want to queer his game by going agin them. As for Jim, he’s a decent enough lad, but slow in the uptake. There’s no knowing how he would show in a crisis,” and he shook his head in renewed disapprobation.
Nell was in a strange mood. Anxiety, danger and a half acknowledged love had all taken their toll of her natural resilience. The events of yesterday had wrought her to a high peak of anticipation. Today, she had felt, dreaming in the sunshine, must surely bring a climax—an answer to all her doubts and difficulties. If the truth must be confessed she was not especially worried about her uncle, having complete faith in Charles’s ability to protect her from his machinations. But her burgeoning love for Charles was a very different matter. Shyly she had thought that perhaps he would come to her today—that the kiss he had pressed on her hand was the prelude to a formal declaration. He would suggest that their mock betrothal should become a true one, and then—and then—At this point her dreams offered so many ecstatic possibilities that she blushed at her own imaginings, and reminded herself severely that Charles could not come to her until his duty was accomplished, and that she must be patient.
So she had waited. And nothing had happened. As the hours passed without news, the bright confidence of the morning faded, and the brooding atmosphere of the inn seemed to grow more menacing. Now she was at the limit of her endurance. Charles seemed to have vanished into the blue. Giles was being awkward and would not help her. All she wanted was to escape from this horrible inn and find Emma. In that safe haven she could sob out her loneliness and her fears and frustration and be comforted.
She eyed Giles frostily and announced her fixed intention of having Jim drive her over to Springbourne at once.
“Now there’s no need to get on your high ropes, Miss Nell,” retorted that insubordinate creature with infuriating indulgence. “If you’re so set on going, I can’t stop you. We’ll just have to hope no harm comes of it. I’ll tell Jim to harness the cob.”
Seated in the gig, with the air cooling her hot cheeks and the delighted Jim handling the reins, Nell began to feel better. It was refreshing just to have escaped from the restraint of the Fleece and even from the supervision of Giles. For a little while she simply relaxed, enjoying the sensation of movement and freedom, and studying Jim’s driving methods with considerable interest. He could scarcely be described as a top sawyer she acknowledged with a twitch of amusement. Neck or nothing was more his style. And it was at this point in her observations that it was suddenly borne in upon her that he was shaking with barely suppressed laughter. For a moment she couldn’t help wondering if he had been sampling the Fleece’s home brew rather too freely during his master’s absence, but he handled the stolid cob competently enough, and it was not until they reached the Springbourne fork that she had any real cause to suppose that his judgement was impaired. When, however, he turned the gig without hesitation down the Winchelsea road, it seemed to be time to make a stand.
“Jim—stop!” she said urgently. “This isn’t the way to the Lamb. For goodness sake give me the reins. You must be completely foxed!”
This very improper term on the lips of a lady provoked the explosion of unbridled merriment that had been threatening ever since they left the Fleece. Jim threw back his head and roared, until finally he doubled up in wheezing gasps, the tractable animal between the shafts obligingly easing to a gentle amble as soon as he felt the reins loose on his back.
Nell drew a deep indignant breath and prepared to give the drunken reprobate the full benefit of her opinion. She was forestalled.
“Oh Miss! Didn’t I bubble them both just fine?” he begged ecstatically. “I did it just right—just the way he told me, and they never suspicioned a thing. ‘Don’t be pushful,’ he says. ‘Just offer to drive her over to Springbourne. If she won’t, she won’t, but it’s worth a try.’ And I done it just right, just the way he said.”
Nell stared at him, only half listening, and, since he spoke in broadest dialect, comprehending less. “Look, Jim,” she repeated patiently, “will you please turn about? I want to go to Springbourne, to the Lamb, to see Mistress Woodstead.”
Jim gathered up the reins willingly enough. “Aye, Miss. But it’s not to Mistress Emma that I’m taking you. We’re going to meet Sir Charles.”
Chapter Sixteen
Life in the country, under his present circumstances, was really very wearing, decided Sir Nicholas. Even the simplest tasks seemed to require his personal supervision—just the one thing he had hoped to avoid. He really disliked physical violence very much, indeed, and to be forced into contact with it would be most unpleasant, but he could no longer foresee any possibility of avoiding such contact. He was also extremely tired. The previous day had been singularly frustrating. Having wasted hours of valuable time in establishing an alibi which was to prove totally unnecessary, he had then been forced to pass an insipid evening in the society of his niece. Even the solace of slumber had been denied him, by the need to establish the whereabouts of Trevannion and Tom Ransome, and in this exercise he had been unsuccessful. The pair of them had simply vanished without trace. Finally he had had to endure the scorn of that bacon-brain, Rudd, who, just because he had not been a party to this particular attempt, had roundly declared that any man of ordinary common sense would have known that such a chancy business was foredoomed to failure. Sir Nicholas decided that he was getting rather tired of Mr. Rudd.
He had been able to snatch barely three hours sleep, and that had been much troubled by dreams. Possibly the buttered crab had been injudicious, but a man of his epicurean tastes grew a little weary of Miss Smithson’s plain fare, and dinner at the George had served the secondary purpose of demonstrating his presence some miles from Wintringham.
He had risen early, and having ascertained from Rudd that there was still no sign of the absentees had realised that he might shortly need to abandon his snug quarters at the Fleece. If Ransome had made his attempt and failed, it would not take Sir Charles long to choke the truth out of him. Fortunately he knew nothing of real importance, but he could scarcely fail to direct suspicion at Sir Nichola
s. It would be wise to ensure that no evidence was available to prove that his visits to the Fleece were anything but innocent. Thoughtfully he rehearsed an air of mild surprise. “Why sir—the locality happens to suit my constitution. And when one is compelled to ruralise—” A slight shrug there, and perhaps a hint of a man-of-the-world smile. It would all depend on the quality of his interrogator. But it would not come to that.
Carefully he sorted through his papers, setting aside one or two that would be better destroyed. Harmless enough in themselves, they yet pointed the fact that he had easy access to more vital information. There was a mass of personal papers, accounts and such, that were of no interest to anyone but himself. These he replaced in the small coffer that held his writing materials. A man with no papers at all would be highly suspect. Finally he came to the slim packet which the Bonapartist agent had rejected. This gave him seriously to think. The information it contained had been obtained at some risk and considerable cost. And if the fortunes of war swung against the Allies, as they had so often done before, it might yet fetch its price. He could not bring himself to destroy it. But it must certainly be bestowed in a safer place. The ruined cottage on the inlet where the French agents had lain concealed might serve. None of the local folk went near it since it was reputedly haunted, and in any case was so tumbledown that it was actually dangerous if one did not know it well. There would be some niche or crevice where he could hide his incriminating treasure.
Meanwhile he bestowed it safely in an inner pocket and went down to the coffee room for a leisurely breakfast. His niece did not put in an appearance. Possibly she still had the headache. But the time was not yet ripe for the administration of his ‘cachets’. He must first have a clearer view of the general situation. The present uncertainty he found irritating, for though he detected in himself a natural genius for improvisation, yet he was by preference a man of orderly habits, who liked to have his course well planned in advance. Well—the day must certainly bring news of Sir Charles, and then he could decide what was best to be done. Meanwhile he would ride gently towards the coast and dispose of his precious package. The coffee room fire had already accepted the other débris of his morning’s work.
The cottage proved to be regrettably ill furnished with hiding places, though in other respects well suited to his purpose. Built a hundred years earlier for a retired sea captain—a gentleman who had first risen to fame and fortune as one of Morgan’s buccaneers, but who, like his master, had later turned respectable—it had originally consisted of a ground floor of three rooms opening out of each other. From the middle one of the three a steep staircase led to a loft above which ran the length of the building. The original owner had spent much of his time here, for the seaward wall was pierced by several narrow unglazed windows, which permitted him to smell the sea and keep an eye on the channel shipping. From the central room, on the ground floor, a trap door gave access to a cellar below.
After the old man’s death the place had passed through various hands. At some time the apertures in the loft had been roughly blocked up because they were thought to make the place damp. It had stood empty now for years and during this time one end wall had collapsed after an exceptionally high spring tide. The derelict kitchen, perched on the edge of the chasm, yawned widely at the passer-by across a waste of soil and rubble. The roof had been roughly shored up with stout timbers, but the side door had gone with the falling wall, and the only other entrance, set in the centre of the landward frontage, had been boarded over.
It was, however, perfectly possible to obtain access to the interior of the building by a route known only to initiates, a dark and malodorous gallery leading from a concealed entrance on the shore to the cellar beneath the cottage. But since this entrance was submerged at half tide it was necessary to select one’s visiting times with care and not to prolong one’s visit unduly, since delay might mean incarceration in the mouldering dwelling till next low water.
Sir Nicholas, having negotiated the intricacies of the passage with due care, strolled from room to room seeking a safe hold for his precious package. It was more difficult than he had anticipated. The wrecked kitchen offered a number of promising fissures in crumbling stonework, but though difficult and dangerous it was not impossible for some adventurous urchin to scramble across the débris of the landslip. The other two rooms, stripped of their furnishing save such as was worn beyond repair, presented only a desolation of damp stained walls and yawning hearths. He did investigate the latter, but it proved impossible to reach high enough inside them to ensure the safety of the documents.
As a last resort he climbed the steep stairway that led to the loft, cursing his own lack of forethought in neglecting to bring up a lantern from the cellar, for the place was in almost total darkness. Just here and there splinters of light penetrated between the rough wood and stone that had been used to block the loopholes, and by this feeble illumination he picked his way to the far end of the room where one aperture, as he had good reason to know, was only shuttered. Fumbling in the darkness and swearing at a torn fingernail, he succeeded at last in lifting down the rough boards and admitting a shaft of daylight. And now at last his efforts were rewarded. Lintels and jambs had been roughly cut from blocks of sandstone, and the neglect of years had caused cracks to appear where the masoned stone met the rubble filled wall. Many of these were only superficial, but eventually he found one ideally suited to his purpose. By folding the documents into a narrow compass he was able to thrust them well out of sight into the thickness of the wall. Should he ever wish to retrieve them a few minutes brisk work with a crowbar would be all that was needed.
He dusted his fingers fastidiously and lingered a moment or two gazing out at the peaceful sunlit scene framed by the opening in the stone. The house had been carefully sited. Though it faced seaward, yet the range of vision from his loophole covered both arms of the little bay and commanded the approach roads on both sides. At the moment all was still. No living thing moved in the sun-tranced landscape and only the calls of the gulls and the moan of a distant ewe broke the utter silence. Sir Nicholas paid passing tribute to the sound military instinct of the man who had ordered the building. For a moment he wondered idly what the fellow’s past had been that he should have taken such pains to secure himself against approach by stealth. Then he shrugged. The man had been dust a hundred years. Suffice it that his stronghold had served a purpose never intended. This loft had proved an excellent refuge and signalling point for the men who had come ashore at slack tide from that shy French fishing vessel.
He took out a pocket knife and carefully trimmed the torn nail, then addressed himself to the task of replacing the boards across the opening. As he did so a distant figure came into sight, topping the crest of the hill that sloped gently to the shore. He paused in his activities, the board resting against the wall, and narrowed his eyes against the dazzle of light. There was something very familiar about the stocky figure padding determinedly down the rough path, and he very soon identified the landlord of the Fleece. A slight frown creased his brow. He would have preferred not to have been discovered in his present situation, but it could not be avoided. The man was bound to recognise his horse which he had left tethered in the shade of a tree, and there was not time for him to pass through the gallery and make good his departure before Rudd caught up with him. In any case it seemed probable that some important development had sent the man in search of him. He finished his task without undue haste, and returned to the former living-room to await events. It was not long before he heard the hollow sound of approaching footsteps and the landlord’s head and shoulders appeared through the trap opening.
“Aye! Hoped I’d find you here,” the man puffed, as he climbed the last two or three steps and dropped the trap back into position with a thud. “’Twas just chance young Jim said he’d seen you ride out this a-way. I was main glad to see your nag and know you was still here.” His eyes roved the room and Sir Nicholas’s person with curiosity, wonde
ring what had brought him to this queer place by daylight.
However there was no time to dwell on this mystery. Sir Nicholas was waiting impatiently, and he himself was big with news.
“I’ve found ’em,” he announced importantly. “Leastways I reckon I know where they’re to be found. There’s no doubting the luck’s on our side in this round, else why should I choose this very morning to take a couple o’ kegs o’ cider over to Simon Dunn? I been meaning to do it these days past seeing as he’ll be wanting it for the harvest time, but if I ’adn’t just ’appened to pick on this morning, ’e might never ’ave thought to tell me about the strange chap that came knocking on ’is door last night. Late on it was, and they all abed, but Simon do be used to later callers, so down ’e comes. And there’s this chap, a great giant of a fellow, wanting to ’ire ’is cart and the old mare along of it for the night. A queer set-out Simon thought. But this cove being very free with ’is blunt—told Simon to name ’is own price ’e did—the bargain was struck. Only Simon, being curious like, slips out of the dairy entry and follows to see where the chap makes for. And blow me if ’e don’t ’ead for the Fleece! Don’t drive right up though, like any honest customer. ’E stops in the lane. And then another tall cove pops up from under the ’edge, and between ’em they ’oists a third chap into the cart, and away they goes towards the Rye road—and to Trevannions I make no doubt, though in course I didn’t tell Simon so. Simon goes back ’ome to ’is bed, but first thing in the morning ’e goes to look, and there’s mare and cart, just as the fellow ’ad promised. And cart floor’s been scrubbed. Seems like there might ’ave been blood stains, and someone mighty anxious they shouldn’t be seen.”
“The ‘great giant of a fellow’ being Trevannion’s groom,” murmured Sir Nicholas, “and he and Trevannion shifting Ransome’s body. He was dead, I suppose?”
