‘What? What you told me last night? ’Bout the—’bout the young man—’im, you know – upstairs wi’ she? Ais. I follow ee.’
‘So we got to be close about ’n. Else she’ll give us the discharge. Mind, I never mentioned no names, so ye can say no more ’n you was telled, an’ that you must forget.’
Music scratched among his untidy hair. This visit of Katie’s was the best thing that had happened to him for many a long day – since maybe that day he’d sung the hymn solo in church when all the others were sick with summer cholera. So he wanted to prolong it. It occurred to him too that he might turn it to more permanent account.
‘Reckon,’ he said cunningly, ‘reckon, Katie, we should talk more o’ this by and by. Eh? You come see me now an’ ’gain, just to make sure nobody’s said nothing, eh?’
‘You great lootal!’ Katie said. ‘There’s only you and me knows! So tis for we to be close and no other.’
‘But I do know who twas,’ said Music, taking something from his hair and squeezing it between his fingers. ‘I do know all the same!’
‘Gis along! I never said a word o’ that!’
‘Nay, nor ye didn’t. But I seen ’im. I seen ’im mount ’is ’orse. When I were going fetch surgeon. He got ’is ’orse tethered by the old smelting wall. I seen ’im mount ’is ’orse and ride away.’
Chapter Seven
I
The meeting between the three young men did not take place on the date or at the place arranged: Stephen had sent word that he would be delayed, and had suggested another venue, which was probably more appropriate for what they had to consider – if a little more suggestive of conspiracy if anyone saw them.
Between Nampara and Trenwith, on the high cliffs not far from Seal Hole Cave, there was a sharp V-shaped declivity in the land, as if nature had intended another inlet and then changed its mind. Sixty-odd feet above the sea the declivity ended in a grassy plateau with the ruins of a long dead mine-working, and a shaft, man-made, driven directly down to the sea. This shaft was about eight feet in diameter, about twenty feet from the cliff edge and surrounded by a low stone wall.
A few years ago when Charlie Kellow was more nimble and more adventurous, and when Paul was still in his early teens, they had made a wooden ladder and nailed it to the side of this shaft so that they could gain access to the splendid little natural harbour created by the rock formation below. Here they had moored and kept their boat, a thirty-year-old lugger of solid but antique construction, and from there had occasionally sailed to Ireland or to France to bring home contraband spirits or silks. Two years ago, however, a fanatic storm had damaged the lugger so badly that they had made no attempt to repair it, and it remained a hulk wedged between rocks not reached by normal tides. Since then no one had used the place, though it was still known locally as Kellow’s Ladder, and always would be.
About half way down the shaft the old miners had driven another shaft, this horizontally, in search of minerals, but after about twenty feet had given up. It was a rough scarred opening from the perpendicular shaft, much picked over at the entrance so that the entrance was quite broad and tall, but a little way in it became the conventional four feet by four feet tunnel by which miners hacked their way in search of gain. It was in this tunnel that, after some discussion, the three young men had decided to cache their spoils. In the time that they had used the cove below, no one else had ever come here – the place appeared to have an unsavoury reputation with the villagers – so there seemed little likelihood of anyone doing so now. Even if they did, the chances of their breaking off half way and entering this tunnel, and then turning over some evil-smelling sacks at the very back of it, was remote. At least it had been agreed that nowhere could the stuff be hidden with less risk of discovery.
They assembled just before dawn, when streaks of light discoloured the east and the wind had dropped. A disparate trio. Stephen with his lion head, cleft chin, wide cheek bones and handsome good looks, rough spoken, open handed, a man to whom action followed impulse, and reflection was more properly to be indulged in only if for some reason action failed; Paul Kellow, slender and dark and as good looking as a stiletto, quietly sure of his importance in the world, a man with few doubts about his own judgement or his own ultimate success; Jeremy Poldark, tall and thin and a little stooping, the only one with genuine brain but at the moment grown errant and unstable, flawed by circumstances that another less feeling man would have taken in his stride.
They went down; and, since recently the ladder had become shaky and some of the rungs unreliable, each man allowed the other to get off at the bottom before he put his foot to the top; they assembled again in the entrance to the cave, then Jeremy lit a couple of candles and stooped his way to the very back where he pulled away a dirty sheet of tarpaulin. Under it were three cleaner sacks, small flour sacks in the first place, each marked in ink with an initial. He brought them towards the entrance to the cave.
‘All’s well. Nobody’s touched them.’
After a minute Stephen went to the sack marked ‘S’ and put his hand in, drew out a few bank notes, some coin, a couple of documents, a ring. He knelt staring at these, ran them through his fingers assaying what he had left. Presently Paul followed suit. Jeremy did not move but stood in the entrance to the cave watching them.
Stephen looked up. ‘How much of yours is gone, Jeremy?’
‘None yet. I told you.’
‘So when are you going to use it?’
‘Soon enough.’
‘If they found out, you’d swing just the same whether you’d spent it or not.’
‘I know that.’
Day was coming now, though in the shaft it would never be anything but half light. Jeremy took a piece of newspaper out of his pocket, unfolded it and began peering at it.
‘What’s that?’
‘You’ve seen it before.’
‘The account? Holy Mary, ye should never’ve kept it. Supposing someone found it!’
‘It would mean nothing to them. And no one ever searches my room.’
In spite of being preoccupied with what was in the sacks they both eventually stood up and began to look over Jeremy’s shoulder.
First there was the news item which read:
Daring Robbery on Stage Coach.
Last week the Self-Defence stage coach, one of the four coaches owned by Messrs Fagg, Whitmarsh, Fromont, Weakley & Co., which ply between Plymouth and Falmouth, was the subject of a daring robbery. Between the time of its leaving Plymouth on the morning of Monday last, the 25th ult. and its arriving in Truro in the afternoon, a breach had been forced between the interior of the coach and the strong box under the driver’s seat; and the contents of the strong box removed. Attempts are now being made to trace the passengers who travelled inside the coach during the journey: a Reverend and Mrs Arthur May; Lieutenant Morgan Lean of the Royal Navy; Mr Arthur Williams Rose, Mr Ord Cadbury and Mr Anthony Trevail.
On the front page of the same newspaper was an advertisement:
One Thousand Pounds Reward.
Stolen from the Self-Defence Stage Coach on Monday, the 25th day of January. The contents of two strong boxes, the property of Messrs Warleggan and Willyams, bankers, of Plymouth and Truro.
Among the property lost are Bank of England Notes of £40, £20 and £10, to the total value of approximately £2,600. All are numbered and dated, and a selection of these numbers is given below. Bank Post Bills payable at Warleggan & Willyams Bank, all at £15 to a total value of about £700. Together with other Bank and Local Notes valued at £850. A bag with 900 Spanish dollars. Another bag containing 360 guineas. Some foreign gold coin. A few small heirlooms, silver and items of jewellery, documents.
A reward of £400 will be offered for information leading to a conviction of the thieves, a further £600 is promised for a recovery of the property stolen.
Then followed the numbers.
Meeting in those cold mid-January days when snow had frequently blown i
n the wind, the three young men had pored over this advertisement. At first it had appeared that none of the Bank of England notes was usable, since they were all numbered and dated; then Paul had pointed out a tactical mistake Warleggan’s Bank had made. No doubt the notes were all numbered and dated, but if the bank had a record of them all, why did they list only a selection at the bottom of the advertisement? It seemed certain they were listing the only ones they possessed. Seven were listed. These clearly could not be safely used. The others, Paul argued, could.
The Post Bills payable to Warleggan’s Bank were altogether more risky, since evidence of identity would probably have to be given before they could be encashed. After much argument, chiefly with Stephen who wanted to carry them to Bristol to see if he could change them there, Jeremy had burned them; also the seven listed bank notes. It had been agony for them all to see the notes blacken and twist and disappear in flame; but Jeremy had argued that unless the step were taken at once someone – one or other of them – would later be tempted to try to cash one; and that might bring all their other careful precautions tumbling down.
Everything else, as he pointed out, was negotiable and untraceable: guineas, Spanish dollars, gold coin, jewellery and the rest; and these should be divided as equally as possible into three parts at once and hidden away in separate sacks so that there should be no arguments later.
And so it was done.
Of this division Stephen had taken nearly all his share before he left for Bristol, Paul rather more than half his.
Stephen said to Jeremy: ‘I thought it was all on account of a needy purpose you had to make a start at becoming rich! It was to be a beginning, ye said. Well, money will not multiply if it be buried in the earth. Indeed, it is quite likely to rot – the paper part of it. The bags are not damp proof.’
Jeremy’s expression did not change. ‘Let us say, Stephen, that once our pleasant adventure was over there was a little sour taste in my mouth, left as an aftermath. It has not yet quite gone. When it has gone I shall consider how best to spend the money.’
Paul said: ‘Well, I don’t think my father could believe his ears when I told him I could find the money to discharge some of his most pressing bills. At first he was suspicious, could not believe I had won it at the cockpit. I said to him: “My dear father, how do you think I have come by it, stolen it?” He soon accepted my explanation, as who wouldn’t in his situation? There is an old proverb about a gift horse. Gradually I have become his blessed son. Of course I have been careful to release only by little and by little. Now when I go to Truro or Redruth he counsels me anxiously lest I wager more money and lose it.’ Paul’s lips creased. ‘At least, unlike you, my two fellow miscreants, I believe I have done something worthwhile with my money. As a result of it the coaching company of Kellow, Clotworthy, Jones & Co. continues to function, and now, as things are picking up, only at a slight loss. Additionally my father is out and about his business and not languishing in a debtor’s prison. My mother and my sister have not been turned out of their home and their belongings sold for anything they could fetch. The House of Kellow continues on its ordinary and, I hope, ordained way. So give or take a few days of shaking knees and watery bowels both before and after the escapade, I am very glad I indulged in it.’
Stephen said: ‘Does your mother and Daisy swallow this story about the cockpit?’
‘They know nothing of it. I swore my father to secrecy because my mother is over-religious and strongly disapproves of gaming. I do not think they have even asked. They never knew the depths of our predicament and so do not know the measure of their escape.’
Jeremy looked across at the other side of the perpendicular shaft. Earth had lodged in one or two crevices and tiny ferns were growing, and further up, nearer the light, a few tufts of sea pink had flowered. He folded up the newspaper cutting and put it back in his pocket.
‘Did you have any difficulty in Bristol, Stephen?’
‘Difficulty?’
‘In changing the notes. I assume you changed the notes there.’
‘No trouble at all; though I confess I had qualms about the two forty pound bills; but they went through without question.’ He thrust a half-dozen Bank of England notes into his wallet. ‘I wish I’d taken them all now.’
‘And the jewellery?’
‘Well I only took the ring. I sold the diamonds out of it. Got £70. Twas probably not full value.’
‘Less than half I’d guess,’ said Jeremy.
Stephen was staring at him. ‘That’s a handsome stockpin you’re wearing. It was not part of the booty, was it?’
‘Not part of this booty,’ said Jeremy obliquely.
‘Come on, then, what is this you’re concealing from us?’
‘Nothing at all. At least nothing to do with anyone but myself.’ Jeremy picked up his own bag and shook it thoughtfully. ‘But I am much in favour of losing these recognizable pieces. You have two, haven’t you, Paul?’
‘The signet ring, which is worth little. And this brooch.’
‘If I were you I’d prise the ruby out and throw the brooch into the sea.’
‘It might be worth a little melted down.’
‘Safer to let it go.’
‘What has happened to that cup?’ Stephen asked.
‘What cup?’
‘You know – the little one. The loving cup, or whatever it is.’
‘It’s back among the sacks, I suppose. We never actually decided whose share it belonged to.’
‘Tis not worth much, is it?’
‘No.’
‘What did you do with your money in Bristol?’ Paul asked. ‘Jeremy tells me you didn’t buy into a privateer?’
‘No, there was naught I liked the look of. Another time it might’ve been different. But there was one or two men I wanted to avoid – hard lads I had had words with before . . . And more than words.’ Stephen felt his chin. ‘I need a shave. No, Paul, if ye are that interested I brought nearly all me money back again – but all in new money. I think maybe I shall invest it here.’
‘Are you thinking that a privateer out of Falmouth would be more to your taste?’
Stephen looked at Jeremy and half grinned. ‘Not exactly, like. I have a mind to invest in the pilchard fishing. Or in a roundabout way, like, that’s what it’ll amount to. And no one can say – not even the Poldark family can say there is aught illegal in that.’
‘Well, tell us all about it,’ said Paul. ‘It is clear that you are dying to.’
‘I don’t think it matters what my family thinks,’ Jeremy said, ‘if you—’
‘It still matters to him what Clowance thinks,’ said Paul. ‘Eh? . . . Well, I’ll say in front of her brother that she’s a handsome girl and a good catch. I’d try the water myself if she gave me half a hope of finding it tepid. If you marry Daisy, Jeremy, we could maybe have a double relationship.’
Jeremy’s face was quite expressionless. ‘What is this scheme you have, Stephen?’
Stephen was sorting through a few documents left in his bag. He looked up. ‘Earlier this summer I was in St Ives – fishermen there – we were talking this way and that: d’ye know what they got for their pilchards last year? I’ll tell you. Fifteen shillings a hogshead. As one of them said: it did not pay for the salt and the nets. And that in a sore year – when food was bitter scarce all over the county. But d’ye know what some others got? I’ll give you a guess. They got 190/- a hogshead – more than a dozen times as much. Same quality fish caught in the same type of boats.’
Paul said: ‘This is a riddle?’
‘No. Just that some were more enterprising than others. They sold ’em in their natural markets.’
‘Spain?’ said Jeremy.
‘Italy in this case.’
‘What d’you mean – they ran the blockade?’
‘Just that. The French can’t patrol all the ports they own, any more than we can patrol all the high seas.’
Jeremy fingered his bag but again did
not untie the cord. He was still reluctant to handle the money, to touch it.
‘Was it one of the export firms – like Fox’s of Falmouth – who broke the blockade?’
‘Nay. As well you might guess. Too scared for their vessels. Nay, twas little men – in their own boats – taking a three month trip and coming home with gold in their pockets – chiefly from St Ives and – they said – Mevagissey and Fowey. Not a dozen in all. But not one was stopped.’
‘And you propose?’
‘To do it on a bigger scale this year. Likely it will be the same conditions – a glut of fish; no one to buy ’em – farmers taking ’em at knock-down prices and using them for manure in their fields. I reckon I can just about afford to furnish out a couple of vessels, make ’em suitable for such cargo, buy the pilchards after curing, pay over the market price to get the best, send the vessels out, maybe go with one of ’em; make a handsome profit that way.’
Paul was listening with his head on one side as if to hear something more behind the words.
‘Are you serious?’
‘No one’s forcing ye to believe me.’
‘And what have you done about it so far?’
‘Nothing. Yet.’
‘And when shall you start?’
‘I shall be at St Ives on Tuesday week bidding for the Chasse Marée.’
‘What’s that in Heaven’s name?’
‘A French prize. She’s not big, but big enough – about 80 ton. Fir built. Equipped in every way. She’s called a fishing boat – and been used as one, ye can see – but her lines are clean. No doubt she’s been used for deep sea work – with the speed to bring her catch in while tis still fresh. But I can see marks on her decks where guns have been fitted. I reckon she’s been used for a little privateering now and then. She’ll suit for the work I want.’
‘What will she take?’
‘What, carry?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, it will need a little more careful working out than I have yet been able to do; but I would suspect two hundred and twenty-five to two hundred and fifty hogsheads. In that neighbourhood.’
The Loving Cup Page 8