Caught in a Cornish Scandal

by Eleanor Webster

  ‘But there must be someone else. I mean someone other than Edmunds that would be more suitable for you,’ he said.

  Anger flashed through her; a sudden, unexpected, fiery emotion surprising her with its intensity. ‘So it is fine to sell myself, as long as it is to someone young and with all his teeth.’

  Fuelled by the emotion, she walked down the path more rapidly.

  ‘Slow down, for goodness sake,’ he muttered, scrambling to keep up with her. ‘Edmunds is dull as ditch water. Good lord, I swear he counts his shillings for entertainment.’

  ‘Better than gambling them away.’

  ‘What if you had a come-out in London? I have a great-aunt. And you have done so much for me, I am certain I could finance—’

  They had reached the base of the cliff. She pulled to an abrupt halt, turning to him, her face for once oddly expressionless. ‘Thank you, Mr Garrett. While I appreciate and welcome your offer to help my sister, I do not require such assistance. I am entirely happy with Mr Edmunds. My hope is that Mr Edmunds will propose. We have many things in common.’

  ‘Like what, for goodness sake?’

  ‘We dislike the city and we are opposed to gambling, drinking or other dangerous pursuits.’

  ‘But you cannot build a life based on what you both dislike. And Edmunds doesn’t just hate the city, he hates anything that has life or any frivolity. You will suffocate. I do not see why you are throwing my offer to help secure you a debut in my face.’

  ‘Because the anticipated arrangement is entirely satisfactory. Mr Edmunds is not mean. He will let Mother stay in the house and I can stay in Cornwall. Indeed, your offer of help is completely unnecessary.’

  * * *

  They walked in silence. Millie’s back was poker straight and stiff, her shoulders slightly raised as though he had angered her.

  He glowered. She’d thrown back his offer as though it was a personal insult, but had shown no hesitation in involving herself in his life. She’d drugged Sir Anthony and likely expected Sam to feel grateful, but his own admirably sensible solution was somehow unforgivable.

  This unfriendly silence continued until she stopped in front of a small structure at the outskirts of the village. A light was visible in one of the windows and a whisper of smoke escaped from the chimney, twisting into the clear evening sky.

  ‘Do they know we are coming?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I sent word with Flora.’

  The door swung open as a woman stepped out. Her hair was without grey and her skin unlined, yet she did not seem young. There was something in her movements, the fatigue in her expression and rounded shoulders which spoke of age, or premature age.

  ‘Sally!’ Millie stepped up to the woman, arms outstretched.

  The woman wrapped Millie in a tight hug while two children peered from the doorway, their faces round, flushed and curious.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ Millie said, holding the woman tight.

  ‘I know. I know.’

  After this tight embrace, the woman stepped back, eyeing Sam with hesitation. She was taller and plumper than Millie. Her eyes were rimmed red. She wore an apron and her hands twisted nervously in the cloth.

  ‘This is Mr Garrett. May we come in?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, leading the way into the small cottage. ‘Flora said as how you were coming and wanted to speak to Da.’

  The cottage was simple with small, high windows and a peat fire flickering within the hearth. The two children retreated into the back of the room, their eyes still wide, while a middle-aged man and woman stood in greeting.

  ‘Mr Garrett, this is Mr and Mrs Aimsworth, and my good friend Mrs Strand and her children, Libby and Gerald,’ Millie said.

  ‘I am very sorry for your loss,’ Sam said.

  ‘Aye,’ Mrs Aimsworth acknowledged. ‘Well, come in then.’

  They walked further into the room. The air felt warm after the chill outside and laced with the scent of herbs. The room was spartan, clean with a bare wooden table and a kettle hanging over the flames. ‘Would you be wanting anything to eat or drink?’ Mrs Aimsworth asked.

  ‘No, thank you,’ Millie said. ‘We just wanted to talk with you for a moment.’

  Sally turned to her children. ‘How about if you two go out and feed the chickens table scraps?’ Sally suggested.

  They complied, with evident reluctance, leaving with a patter of footsteps, followed by a clang of the outer door.

  After this exit, the adults faced each other with serious formality. Sam glanced about the cottage, realising how infrequently he had visited a working-class family. The smallness of the space and stark simplicity struck him.

  ‘It is kind of you to come. Sit down.’ Mrs Aimsworth invited.

  They sat at little awkwardly at the table. There were insufficient chairs so Mr Aimsworth pulled up a stool from the hearth, moving a much-used battledore—a book to help the children learn their alphabet—placing it on the table, the alphabet and a picture of some clouds visible.

  ‘Thank you for allowing us to come,’ Millie said. ‘We are sorry to intrude, but we are hoping that you can help us. We want to get some justice for Jem.’

  ‘Aye, we warned him to stay away from smuggling. These days it ain’t the same as it once were. He never should have done it,’ Mr Aimsworth said, shaking his head.

  ‘Jem just wanted to give me a good life—’ Sally spoke, her tone defensive and her face flushing.

  Millie slid her hand across the table, touching her friend’s arm. ‘Jem was a good man. He did not deserve what happened to him.’

  The other woman grasped Millie’s hand, angling towards her with sudden intensity. ‘There are rumours. I hear say that they weren’t all drowned. That it weren’t an accident and how the ship were wrecked on purpose. That it were—it was murder.’

  ‘Yes,’ Millie said.

  ‘So it is true.’ Sally’s voice dropped so low, it was scarcely a whisper.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wrecking’s a bad business. The devil’s game,’ Mr Aimsworth said in the brusque tone that men often use when fearing they might display emotion.

  Millie took both Sally’s work-hardened hands within her own. ‘We think that there are wreckers tied up with the smuggling here in the village. And we want to stop the wrecking. Anything you know could help. Anything.’

  ‘And how do you fit it?’ Mr Aimsworth posed this question directly to Sam, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  Millie looked as though she were about to speak, but Sam shook his head. Mr Aimsworth deserved a direct answer.

  ‘Truthfully, I do not know. As Miss Lansdowne may have said, I am Frances Ludlow’s brother. Jason Ludlow is my brother-in-law. As you likely also know, he is missing. I had an accident on the same night, but my memory of the event has gone.’ He paused, running his fingers over the worn primer, so used the pages were disintegrating. ‘I would like to find out the truth both to ensure there is justice for the men lost and that my sister is not blamed for her husband’s disappearance.’

  There was a silence after this statement. Mr Aimsworth eyed Sam for a moment, as though weighing him up. He reached up to the mantel, pulling down his clay pipe and studying it with some intensity.

  ‘Right, so how can we help?’ he asked at last.

  ‘My understanding is that there has always been some smuggling here, but that, more recently, this has become lethal, involving wrecking. Are people from here—from this village—involved?’

  ‘Aye, there are rumours,’ Mr Aimsworth said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Some of the smugglers—’

  Sally gave a gasp.

  ‘Not Jem, mind. But I heard tell the Captain was involved,’ Mr Aimsworth continued.

  ‘The Captain?’ Millie said. ‘Of The Rising Dawn?’

  ‘Aye.�
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  ‘But that doesn’t make sense. The Captain was on the ship. He was killed.’

  ‘Reckon he weren’t the boss. Wrecking is different than brandy running. There’s jewels, watches, specialised cargo. You need connections. You need people in the big cities.’

  ‘So you think someone else was involved?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Who?’

  The word hung in the air. It seemed like everyone in the tiny cottage was holding his or her breath. Even the fire’s crackle was muted. Millie felt her own breath catch and hold.

  ‘We do not know for sure,’ Mr Aimsworth said.

  ‘But you have heard the rumours?’ Sam leaned forward. ‘I’m guessing it is my missing brother-in-law.’

  Mr Aimsworth refilled his clay pipe, his movements slow and careful, as though the task required his entire concentration. Again there was that sense of waiting, as though time had been suspended. ‘Aye,’ he said.

  ‘But why wreck The Rising Dawn?’

  Mr Aimsworth put the pipe between his lips, inhaling deeply. ‘I have heard tell the Captain wanted out of the wrecking business. Didn’t sit right with him. Plus they weren’t going to get away with it for much longer.’

  ‘Why not?’ Sam asked.

  Mr Aimsworth exhaled a cloud of smoke. ‘Too many cutters. This Waterguard nonsense. Besides, your brother-in-law isn’t best suited for a role requiring silence and subterfuge. He enjoys his drink and likes to talk.’

  That much was true. Tom had occasionally brought Jason to Lansdowne House.

  So had Jason plotted against The Rising Dawn or was there another person or entity involved?

  She’d always considered him capable of violence, but not the cruel measured calculation needed to lure a ship to its doom. Millie remembered the steady shooting as the three half-drowned men had struggled from the water. They had been so utterly defenceless.

  ‘I did not think him capable of wrecking,’ she said.

  ‘Jem did not know anything about this, so why? Why did Mr Ludlow or anyone kill him?’ Sal asked.

  ‘No loose ends,’ her father said.

  Millie tightened her clasp on her friend’s hands, holding them between her own. She looked about the small, familiar cottage and felt the tears in her eyes. They had so little. It was so cruelly unfair that fate should have taken Jem.

  With unspoken accord, they stood, chairs scuffling back.

  ‘Thank you,’ Millie said, again reaching to hug her friend. ‘Let me know if there is anything you need. Anything I can do to help.’

  ‘I will,’ Sal said.

  Millie glanced down at the well-used battledore. ‘You’re teaching them to read?’

  ‘You taught me,’ she said. ‘Gerald is a bright lad. There has to be other choices than smuggling or the mine.’

  Millie nodded. There was something brave in her friend’s determination to help her children achieve a better life.

  ‘I will send Flora down with some more primers or come myself, I promise.’

  They walked towards the door.

  ‘And we will send word if we learn anything,’ she said.

  ‘You have an idea where Mr Ludlow might be?’ Sal asked.

  Sam glanced at Millie. ‘I do not know where he is, but I know where I will start looking.’

  * * *

  Sam and Millie walked into the cool chill air of evening. There was a relief in leaving. The atmosphere in the house felt weighted with grief. For a few moments they strode in silence, needing to distance themselves from the poverty and pain in the cottage.

  ‘You’re thinking of the hut? You think Jason might be there?’ Millie asked, as they neared the base of the cliff.

  ‘It’s a good place to start,’ Sam said. ‘Sir Anthony could take the constables tomorrow.’

  Millie shook her head, glancing towards the shale beach and the unusually calm sea. It would be a clear night. ‘Tomorrow will be too late. If Jason is alive, he has done all of this to make us believe him dead. He wants to escape to the Continent.’

  ‘You think he would go tonight?’

  ‘The weather is good. He would be a fool not to.’

  ‘So he has likely already left the hut?’

  She nodded. ‘He has likely taken the jewellery and coins and is hiding close to shore with a boat arranged to take him to France. We could rouse Sir Anthony and we could get a boat—’

  ‘No.’ He spoke sharply. ‘We are not doing or going anywhere. Not tonight, tomorrow or the next day. There is no “we”.’

  ‘Fiddlesticks,’ Millie said. ‘I am in this. Talking to the Aimsworths was my idea. Someone lured those men to their deaths. I cannot turn my back on them. I can be a witness—’

  ‘I won’t let you put yourself in danger. We still do not know if Jason was working alone. We may not even be right about Jason.’

  ‘It is my choice. You do not need to protect me as well as your sister. You are not the self-appointed protector of the vulnerable and hopeless. I make my own decisions.’

  ‘Why?’ He faced her. ‘Why would you want to be involved? I thought you were all about honesty. You said you are sensible and not a risk taker. You cannot decide to be cautious one moment and marry Mr Edmunds and then decide to chase a murderer in the next.’

  ‘Sally is my friend. I knew those men. They were lured to their death.’

  ‘And your death will hardly be a comfort for her or any of them. Plus it would be mighty inconvenient for Edmunds at the wedding.’

  ‘I do not know why you keep mentioning Mr Edmunds and my wedding.’

  ‘And I do not know why you did not bring it up a tad sooner.’

  ‘For goodness sake, it is not even decided yet. Mr Edmunds hasn’t officially proposed. Anyway, I did not mean to keep it a secret. It just did not come up.’

  ‘It did not come up? We were talking about everything else. I felt... Anyway, it seems a big item to omit.’

  ‘Perhaps not when escaping a shipwreck,’ she retorted. ‘Anyway, you know now.’

  ‘I do and I am certain your intended would prefer that you do not run around chasing criminals.’

  ‘It isn’t any of his business,’ she retorted.

  ‘It soon will be.’

  This, of course, was true. It was why she would prefer never to marry anyone. ‘A fundamental weakness in our society,’ she said. ‘Anyhow, I feel no need to consult him at least until the engagement is official.’

  He glared at her and then turned, walking briskly. ‘And I feel no need to involve you in the further pursuit of Mr. Ludlow.’

  ‘But I am involved. I was there. I witnessed men murdered. Besides, you still need me.’

  ‘I do not,’ he said.

  ‘Actually you are going up the wrong path to get back to the inn, so maybe you do.’

  * * *

  They hurried up the steep path in an angry silence, punctuated only by the scrabble of their shoes and ragged breaths. The sun was setting, its dying rays disappearing behind the horizon. The temperature had dropped and their breath formed small clouds of mist.

  Once at the top of the cliff, they hurried across the grass towards the lighted windows of the tavern. Roast beef mixed with smoke, salt water and that peaty scent indigenous to Cornwall still perfumed the air. The landlord opened the door almost before they had knocked.

  ‘I saw you out the window,’ he explained as they stepped into the dimly lit passage way. ‘In fact, Sir Anthony is wanting to see you. Most particular like.’

  ‘He is?’ They exchanged glances as the landlord led them down the corridor.

  ‘Here we are then.’ The landlord flung open the door, with almost theatrical aplomb, before shifting back.

  ‘Thank you.’ Millie smiled as they stepped forward into the warm, well-lit room.


  Briefly, everything was disjointed, as though only seeing pieces of a disconnected scene, impossible to comprehend. She saw Mrs Ludlow. She saw her smile and soft violet gown. She noted the inviting fire and glowing lamps.

  Mrs Ludlow’s tone was calm, almost gentle, and the greeting gracious. ‘Welcome, I have been expecting you.’

  Millie’s lips twisted into a smile of greeting as she heard Mrs Ludlow’s words, even as her heart thudded like a wild thing.

  Chapter Twelve

  Millie tried to make sense of the dichotomy: Mrs Ludlow’s smile of welcome and the pistol’s barrel aimed at them.

  ‘Mrs Ludlow? What are you doing?’ Sam demanded, finding his voice first. ‘Put that down before you hurt yourself.’

  ‘Do not worry, I am quite skilled,’ she said with that pleasant smile.

  ‘Why?’ Millie pushed out the one word through stiff lips.

  ‘So I can look after my son. It is a mother’s duty.’

  ‘Where...where is Sir Anthony?’ Millie stared at the comfortable chair. It was empty. ‘Did you k-kill him?’ She stumbled over the word, the simple one syllable hard to form.

  ‘Of course not. He is quite fine. Cartwell put him upstairs to sleep. I will have enough bodies to dispose of as it is.’

  You will? Millie said or thought she said. Goose pimples prickled her skin despite the room’s heat.

  Mrs Ludlow reached for the bell pull, while still keeping the pistol levelled at Millie. The landlord entered, holding on to a rope, which he twisted nervously within his hands.

  ‘Good,’ Mrs Ludlow said. ‘I am glad you brought the rope. Miss Lansdowne, you look very tired. Come over here, dear, and sit down.’

  Millie stumbled into a chair which was quite close to where Mrs Ludlow stood at the hearth.

  ‘That’s better. You must be exhausted. You have been walking your feet off these last few days. So very adventurous.’ She moved so that she stood directly behind Millie’s chair, placing one hand on Millie’s shoulder. Even through the cloth of her serviceable gown, Millie could feel the hard tightness of the woman’s fingers.