by Mira Stables
The landlord shook his head. “Not then, so far as Simon could make out. He was tied up, and some kind of a muffler over his face. Well you don’t tie up a corpse, do you? Stands to reason.”
“So doubtless by now he has told all he knows. Well—there’s little danger. They can prove nothing, and no one will listen to the ravings of an escaped convict.”
“That’s as maybe. But Captain Trevannion knows who’s behind the attempt on him. I reckon we got to deal with that lad, and smartish, too. So I’ve taken steps, as you might say.”
Sir Nicholas stiffened. If this clumsy oaf had meddled in what was a very delicate business, there might indeed be real danger. “And pray what steps did you deem necessary?” he asked softly.
“Well first of all I’ve fixed it with young Jim to bring the lass here, that’s if he can get ’er off without a fuss, and I reckon ’e’ll manage that. That there groom is sniffing round the Fleece like a terrier at a rat run. There’ll be no shifting ’im till either you or me shows up again. And when Jim tells the wench that Sir Charles wants ’er to meet ’im, she’ll jump at it like a cock at a gooseberry. Once she’s safe in our ’ands, ’e’s bound to come after ’er. And there couldn’t be a better place than this for dealing with the pair of them.”
Sir Nicholas listened to this simple exposition with mingled fury and contempt. “And if Sir Charles has already returned to the Fleece, as seems more than probable, what happens then to your precious Jim and his story?”
“Ah, but ’e won’t ’ave done,” replied the landlord confidently. “I put it to Simon Dunn that ’e was on the track of the Gentlemen, nosing out the places where we store the stuff till we can get it away. Proper put about, Simon was. He’s posting two or three of the lads on the road ’twixt Rye and Wintringham, and if my fine gentleman comes back before we’re ready for ’im, ’e’ll like as not get the horse shot from under ’im. And if the bullet goes astray and does for ’im—well so much the better says I. They can’t stay on the job much after mid-afternoon though. They’re shifting the stuff that was stored by Cock Marling tonight, and the lads are going to lay a false trail out towards Pett. They’ll need to get ready for that.”
Sir Nicholas considered the plan carefully. It trusted far too much to the element of chance. Jim might not succeed, for quite a variety of reasons, in luring the girl into the trap, and everything hinged on that. Sir Charles might return to the inn by a different route, and so escape the ambush laid for him. Since, however, his own participation was not required in these hazardous early stages, he was prepared to watch the development of the plan with benevolent interest. If the luck was indeed on their side, he would turn Rudd’s intervention to good account. But there was no doubt that the fellow was getting above himself. Something would have to be done about him.
“And if all goes as you hope, how do you propose to deal with your prisoners?” he asked.
“Knock ’em on the head and set fire to the place,” replied the landlord, with the pleased air of the man who has thought of everything. “The traders have used it long enough—it’s risky to keep on using the same place—and too many people know about the cellar entrance.”
Sir Nicholas nodded. The plan was crude, but effective enough, given a modicum of luck. People might wonder why two, or possibly three charred bodies should be discovered in a presumably empty house, but there was no need for him to fatigue his brain with the invention of a plausible tale. Local rumour would soon do that, and in superfluity. He need only lend his support to the tale he considered most credible. Carefully he searched the plan for obvious flaws. He thought regretfully of his hidden treasure. It would almost certainly be reduced to ashes in the projected holocaust, but its loss would be trivial in comparison with the fortune he would gain by successfully disposing of his niece.
“What about the lad, Jim? He’s going to know too much for safety.”
“Not for long ’e ain’t,” said Rudd laconically. “Once ’e’s brought Missy safely to her trysting place, ’e’s of no further use. I’d ’ave liked to use ’im to make sure the captain got the office, but it’s too risky. We’ll ’ave to rely on them spotting the gig. I’ll make sure it’s left in plain sight. No. The lad must burn with the rest. We can drop the other two easy enough. They can only come through the trap one at a time. And if so be as Jim sends the lass up the passage on ’er own, I’ll tend to ’im myself when t’other business is done with. Never you fear, Sir Nicholas, ’e’ll be put to bed with a shovel all right, and nobody to raise riot and rumpus about ’im neither, seeing as ’ow ’e’s only a foundling brat,” and in excess of joviality over his own cleverness he actually had the brazen assurance to slap Sir Nicholas on the shoulder.
Not by the flicker of an eyelash did Sir Nicholas betray the seething fury that filled him at this presumptuous familiarity. With seeming carelessness he strolled over to the window, shrugging off that importunate hand. “Damp as it is,” he said thoughtfully, “the place won’t burn easily. Can you readily lay your hands on any combustibles that would help the fire get a hold?”
Apparently this need had escaped Rudd’s calculations, for he spent a few moments in thinking it over before pronouncing that the few remnants of wooden furniture, with the old straw mattress out of the sleeping chamber and driftwood that could be brought up from the shore would form a useful nucleus for the bonfire, and a couple of barrels of oil, suitably disposed, would ensure that it gained a hold on doors and roof timbers. He engaged himself to provide the necessary fuel in good time, and presently went off to see about it, leaving Sir Nicholas to his own reflections.
Chapter Seventeen
So he had not forgotten her, nor despised her assistance. Nell hugged the joyful thought to herself as the gig rattled and lurched its way along the rough track. She had no idea where they were going, except that they were travelling south-west and following the line of the coast. No faintest doubt of Jim’s good faith clouded her eager anticipation of the moment when she would meet Charles once more. Jim, face wreathed in an ecstatic grin at the memory of the ease with which he had carried out his instructions, devoted all his attention to the uneven terrain. Conversation would have been difficult in any case, and Nell had no particular desire for it, being wholly absorbed in her own delightful thoughts. Perhaps Jim did ponder the oddity of commencing an elopement from a derelict house that was notoriously difficult of access. His master’s strangely uncharacteristic behaviour in helping the young lovers to their odd trysting place was easily explained. Sir Charles must have been uncommon generous about greasing him in the fist. He wondered what Sir Nicholas would say when he discovered that the love birds had eluded him and were well on the way to the border. Jim had no great liking for Sir Nicholas. A nasty cutting way he had of speaking to a fellow as though he was dirt, and never so much as a shilling slipped into a lad’s hand. Jim would be quite pleased to see Sir Nicholas out-jockeyed.
Nell’s thoughts were entirely centred on Charles. Since she had no idea that Jim had received his orders from the landlord, or that he believed himself to be assisting at an elopement, her mind was full of the wildest conjecture as to what necessity had caused Charles to summon her to his aid. She wished she had worn riding dress—he might need to send her on some urgent errand—and that she had brought her pistol, since that too might be needed before the adventure was done. But over and above these excited imaginings was the thought of being once more at Charles’s side, helping him, obeying his orders, perhaps receiving a precious word of commendation. Surely, surely, he must truly value her, since he had sent for to help him? Lost in a romantic dream, in which, by means unspecified, she was the one who brought all his plans to a successful issue, and far more concerned with the warm and loving look in his eyes than with the importance of those plans, Nell suffered the jolting of the gig over the slippery turf without even noticing.
Presently they stopped beside a gate. “We ’as to walk from ’ere,” Jim explained, as he hitched the rei
ns to the gatepost. Nell jumped down without assistance and stared wonderingly around. Apart from a tumbledown building which she took to be a barn, there was no visible habitation. Where was Charles? She would have liked to question her guide about his dealings with her beloved, but since she did not know how far he had been admitted into Charles’s confidence, it seemed wiser to preserve a discreet silence. So she followed him without demur through the gate and down a path that was little more than a sheep track.
“’Tis tedious rough walking for a lady,” he said, holding aside a trailing plant that obstructed the path, “and I doubt the wet sand’ll spoil your slippers, but it’s the only way of getting into the place since the land slip,” and he jerked his head towards the building that now loomed above them.
“Are we to go in there?” demanded Nell, surprised. “Why—I’m sure I saw a door at the back. Could we not have used that?”
Jim shook his head wisely. “It’s all nailed up, Miss,” he explained. “We ’as to go in through the cellars. But it’s not dark,” he offered cheerfully. “There’s plenty candles to light the way. I guess it’s been used by the Gentlemen, days past, though ’tain’t now of course.”
Here was romance and adventure indeed. A secret assignation in a smuggler’s hold. Eyes wide and bright with excitement, Nell stared around the narrow entrance, noticing several footprints in the fine sand that the receding tide had left on its floor. Jim explained that it was low tide just now, so the entrance would be usable for some four or five hours. “So you’ll need to be away before then,” he finished with a knowing grin, and showed her where the roughly cut gallery steps led upwards.
As he had promised, it was sufficiently lit. There were candles stuck on spikes which had been hammered into the rock. But it was far from inviting, the lower steps being wet and slimy with weed, the walls glistening with ooze, and the whole aspect dank and dismal, while the candles flickered in the constant draught and filled the narrow passage with oily smoke and the reek of tallow. For all her courage, Nell was glad to accept Jim’s obliging offer to lead the way, and for the first time a touch of doubt clouded her eager spirits. What could have caused Charles to bring her to such a place?
This was no time for missish qualms and tremors she told herself, with an impatient shake of the head, and summoned her energies to following Jim’s reassuringly sturdy legs as they led the way upward. Once or twice he turned and gave her a helping hand over the steeper rises, and so brought her safely to the cellar below the house. Here a lanthorn hung on a wall peg, and Nell’s spirits began to rise again as she perceived signs of human occupation. Several barrels stood in one corner of the room, and a pile of driftwood roughly stacked, as well as just such items of outworn or broken furniture as one would expect to find relegated to the attics or cellars of the house. But there was no time to study her surroundings in detail. Jim was already climbing the steep stone stair that led to the room above, and she watched him struggling to raise the heavy trap door. He managed it eventually, but there was no ensuing gleam of brighter light. The room above must be in darkness. She watched Jim climb the remaining steps, lifting the trap clear and holding it in front of him as he disappeared out of her sight. There was a thud. That would be Jim dropping the trap cover. She thought she heard him speak to someone, and then suddenly bright daylight shone down through the opening. Jim must have drawn back the curtains and let in the light so that she could see her way more clearly. Eagerly, gaily, she ran up the stair and stepped into the room. In one brief shocked glance she saw its desolation. Not the curtains of her imagining but an old straw mattress, tattered and soiled, its filling exuding from a dozen rents, had been used to darken the window. It now leaned drunkenly against the wall. Stretched on the floor in the light from the window lay the body of Jim Cooke, face down in the dust. She took one swift impulsive step towards him, then stopped and turned, slowly, reluctantly, cold terror at her heart, knowing already what she must inevitably see. Leaning gracefully against the chimney piece, casual and impassive as ever, Sir Nicholas met her frightened bewildered stare without visible emotion. Beside him was Bart Rudd, all agrin at the success of his plot.
“So the little lovebird flew straight into the trap,” jeered Rudd, and came towards her. Nell sprang for the opening in a desperate bid for escape, but it was just this expected reaction that he had moved to block. His great hands caught her up without effort and carried her, fighting wildly, to the hearth, where he stood her on her feet, face to face with her uncle, and twisted her hands roughly behind her back, where he controlled them easily in one of his huge paws while he flung the other arm round her writhing twisting body. She kicked out furiously, stamping on his feet and hacking at his shins, but her little feet in their soft kid slippers could do no effective damage. He merely pulled her closer against his body and used both arms to subdue her struggles, trapping her hands against him and saying in oily admiration, “My! What a fierce little lovebird it is. Lie still now, my pretty. Your uncle don’t like to see you so put about. Old Bart won’t hurt you.”
Nell’s struggles ceased. It was useless and foolish to wear herself out against his enormous strength, when she might later need all her energies for an attempt at escape. Her first wild flurry of resistance had been inspired more by her instinctive revulsion from the brute who was holding her than from any real hope of escaping him. She stood still. Rudd, deciding that she had acknowledged defeat, relaxed his grip a little, and took the opportunity to pass an appreciative hand over the curve of her breast.
The furtive movement did not escape Sir Nicholas, and it annoyed him. He had listened with equanimity, even with mild amusement, to Rudd’s suggestion that they should sell the girl to a brothel. This was different. She was a damned nuisance, and he must of necessity encompass her death. But she was of his blood, and he would not see her mishandled by this coarse oaf.
“Let her go,” he said, quietly enough, but there was a note in his voice that caused Rudd’s hands to drop away from the girl’s body as though they had been stung. “She cannot escape now, and there is no reason why she should be man-handled and insulted.” And turning to the girl, he went on in the same cold gentle voice, “If you had only permitted yourself to be guided by me, there would have been no need to proceed to these unpleasant lengths. You would have been safely in the care of your good aunt. As it is, I fear you have several extremely uncomfortable hours ahead of you. We must hope that the experience will bring you to a more biddable frame of mind. You will be good enough to climb the stairway behind you there, which leads to the room above this. There you will remain, until I have decided how I shall bestow you.”
Nell looked at the stairway, and hesitated. The thought of rendering meek obedience made her hot with shame, but what choice had she? Even as she meditated a frantic appeal, Sir Nicholas said gently, “If you do not obey me, our worthy Rudd here shall carry you to your room. But I am sure you would be loath to put him to so much trouble.”
The words of appeal died on her lips. She directed a glance of burning disgust at the pair of them, and walked steadily to the stairs. Only when she had climbed them and opened the door to perceive the dark cavern of her prison did she turn her head towards her uncle and say, with a cool composure that matched his own, “Am I to be permitted a light in my imprisonment?”
Sir Nicholas shrugged indifferently, but as she stood quietly waiting, he at last reached down a lanthorn from its peg on the wall and kindled a light which he set to the stump of candle inside it. This he handed to the silent girl. She uttered no word of thanks, simply took it from his extended hand and closed the door behind her. Sir Nicholas lifted into position the heavy bar which passed across the entire door frame, fitting into supports at either side, and making it quite impossible to open the door from within. The bait was held securely in the trap. Now to see if the rest of the scheme would work.
He came leisurely down the stairs, and, ignoring the landlord, crossed over to the sprawled body of the unf
ortunate dupe, whom he stirred, not ungently, with one foot. Rudd came across to join him, and seizing the lad’s shoulders, rolled him on to his back. Blood from an ugly wound at the side of his head had trickled across his face and mingled with the dust to form a grotesque, horribly patched mask. His eyes were closed, but he was still breathing. Rudd’s hand went out to the club which he had dropped after using it so effectively. “Didn’t hit him hard enough,” he grunted, and it was obvious that he proposed to correct that error forthwith. Sir Nicholas, who did not share his actual pleasure in violence and cruelty, and had no wish to see coldblooded murder committed before his eyes, put out a detaining hand.
“No need for that—as yet,” he said. “Later, perhaps.” And then, as though proffering some excuse for his squeamishness, added thoughtfully, “It won’t do for him to be found battered to death if he’s supposed to have perished in a fire. Even the blow you have already inflicted will have to be accounted for.”
“Eh! ’Tis simple enough. The poor lad fell down the stairs in his haste to escape from the flames,” suggested Rudd piously. “Maybe if I was to drop him down now,” nodding at the still open trap, “it would finish the job nicely without upsetting your honour.”
“Yes. And leave his body lying there to warn Trevannion I suppose,” retorted Sir Nicholas, slightly ruffled by the sneering reference to his delicate sensibilities. “Do you imagine he would just calmly step over the corpse and come on up the stairs without giving it a second thought?”
Rudd muttered some obscenity under his breath, but made no further objection when Sir Nicholas bade him tie the fellow up without more ado, though he tightened the knots with cruel force, and for good measure muffled the lad’s unconscious face with his own bloodstained neckerchief, expressing a wish that he might suffocate. He then dragged the body into the adjoining room which had served as the long dead captain’s sleeping cabin and dumped it on the floor. This accomplished he returned to Sir Nicholas, slightly breathless from his exertions, and remarked, with a return to his habitual obsequious manner, “Happen your Honour was in the right of it at that. He’s more of a heavyweight than he looks. If I’d once dropped him down that trap, I’d never have got him up again.”
