by Joan Smith
They argued a moment, then the shorter one said to Cocker in broken English, “Where tonight is Thatchley?” Amy came to attention. Thatchley was the name Bransom used, when he got himself recruited into Cocker’s gang of Gentlemen.
“Allez. Gone, ne pas here.” Cocker was the linguist of his gang. He had picked up merci, bonjour, au revoir and a few such common speeches.
The Frenchman nodded, and said to his partner, “The fools haven’t found his body yet.”
“Good. That’ll teach ‘em to sic a spy on us.”
“Pshaw. This lot don’t know what he was up to. They’re just the haulers.”
“Very likely. That was a clever trap Alphonse and his friend arranged for the spy, eh?”
Amy held her breath, not daring to breathe. Now she was going to hear what they had done to Bransom. Alas, they were distracted by Cocker. He held a tin cup to the spout and tried the brandy. He passed the cup around in a hospitable fashion and complimented the French smugglers on its quality. “Tray bone,” he said in an execrable accent. Then he drew out his purse and counted out the payment in gold coin. Amy heard the coins clink enticingly into the Frenchman’s outstretched palm. Au revoirs were exchanged, and the Frenchmen rowed back to their lugger.
Larry West led the donkey train forward and the Gentlemen began the laborious chore of arranging the barrels over their strong backs to be hauled away for concealment until it could be safely delivered to local inns and hotels, and stately homes. Brandy was easily available, despite its being banned in England.
Before going home, Amy made a quick survey of the surrounding territory to ensure the Revenueman was not about. She ran like a hare through the darkness, with bushes snatching at her coat tails and the wind cold on her face. Cook, who was Mary’s aunt and a part of the scheme, always kept the back door open for Amy, with a pot of tea waiting. Smuggling was not considered a crime on the coast but a way of life. It was all that kept body and soul together in many cases.
Amy changed out of her disguise into the dressing gown that Cook had waiting downstairs for her. While she took her tea, she assured Cook that all had gone well. Cook said, as she always did on these occasions, “I do think one of the grooms or footmen ought to be doing this if Jed can’t.”
Amy said, as she always did, “It is quite all right, Cook. I don’t mind. And you know once a young man took over he would want to keep the job.” There was no arguing with this.
“Seems to me a young lady should be getting her excitement from beaux, not brandy.”
For some reason, an image of Ravencroft’s harsh visage popped into Amy’s mind. She would have to tell him what she had overheard that night. Bransom was dead, murdered. A trap had been set for him. Therefore, someone had tumbled to it that he was a spy. In fact, the French smugglers had used the word “espion.” How did they know? Had he been followed? Had they searched his room at the Greenman and found some incriminating evidence?
Someone had warned Alphonse, who had connived at Bransom’s death, and passed the word to the brandy smugglers to inquire about Thatchley. Common sense told her that “someone” was the man who was receiving Alphonses’s “paper” cargo. A moment’s consideration suggested this same man had murdered Bransom.
Her instinct was to rush off to Easton to tell the Wolf that very instant. As that was ineligible, she must be in touch with him tomorrow morning. She doubted that he would answer a summons after the harangue he had read her yesterday. She must go to him. Her pride balked at the idea. He was the most toplofty, arrogant, overbearing man she had ever met. Also the most elegant. His toilette put even Felix in the shade.
Once her decision was taken she went up to bed, where she lay awake a long time, trying to think of a plan to discover who was working with Alphonse.
She awoke in the morning to clear white skies and watery sunlight, which was called a fine day on the coast, where a blue sky was a rarity. Her first duty every morning was to take her father’s breakfast tray up to him.
“How is he, Tombey?” she asked, when he met her at the door.
“He was a bad boy last night, Miss Bratty.”
“Oh dear. He wet the bed again.”
“And threw a glass of water at me. But there, he’s not hisself, Miss. I remember him well from the old days.”
A wavering voice called to her from the bed. “They’re treating me like a dog, Nanny.” What an injustice to loyal Tombey! He shook his head in sorrow.
She went to the bedside and comforted her father as much as she could. It was heartbreaking to see the dignified old gentleman sunk to this pitiable state. She remembered him from the old days, too, when the parish looked up to him, and rushed to him in their time of trouble. And to think Felix Bratty, that foolish fop, would be his replacement! It was the one thing that inclined her to marry Felix, to provide a steady hand at Bratty Hall.
Amy never took much care of her appearance. With no one to appreciate a fancy toilette, she had fallen into the habit of wearing plain gowns and bonnets. She usually drew her hair into a chignon on the back of her head and called that a coiffure. As she donned her plain round bonnet, she remembered the dismissing way the Wolf had looked at her when she first spoke to him at the market. It was almost as if he couldn’t see her. Perhaps if she dressed in a more stylish fashion, he would not dismiss her so readily.
She set the round bonnet aside and put on the feathered high poke she usually kept for church. With this bonnet, she always wore her better pelisse of navy serge with the frogged ornament down the front. Arrayed in this modest splendor, she went out to the carriage for the drive into Easton. She asked the groom to stable the carriage at the Rose and Thistle.
“Where shall I meet you, and at what time, Miss Bratty?” he asked.
“I have a few errands. Here, in an hour will be fine.”
She had no idea how long her meeting with the Wolf would take, but she could always spend a half hour in the shops if she finished early. Her bronze evening gown could use new ribbons, and really her white shawl was becoming yellow from age. She could just imagine what the Wolf would think of it!
She went to the desk and asked for Mr. Stanford.
The clerk’s sharp eyes betrayed his curiosity. Miss Bratty asking after a gentleman? That was unusual. Her Sunday best bonnet suggested romance, but if he were a beau, why wasn’t he putting up at the Hall? “He’s left, Miss Bratty,” he said.
“Oh dear. I don’t suppose you know where –”
“He didn’t say, but I happened to see him heading toward the Greenman. He’d already had his breakfast.”
“Thank you,” she said, and left, perfectly aware that her mission was causing curiosity, that would lead to gossip. She required some other means of contacting Mr. Stanford than running after him like a trollop. That is what the clerk thought, that she was chasing him. Pride left her cheeks pink with annoyance. She was not looking forward to repeating the performance at the Greenman.
As events turned out, she didn’t have to visit the other inn. She met Lord Ravencroft on the street. He lifted his hat and made a sort of token bow without slowing his pace. She had to reach out and stop him with a hand on his elbow, which annoyed them both to no small degree. He stopped then and glared at her.
“Can I help you, Miss Bratty?” he asked coolly.
“We have to talk,” she said, damping down her anger.
“Talk, then. I am on my way to see an estate agent about viewing a house. I require some excuse for being here at Easton.”
“Bransom has been murdered,” she said, and had the satisfaction of seeing him shocked out of his usual hauteur. His face stiffened, and his lips clenched into a thin line.
He looked around, then put a hand on her elbow. “That tea room across the street. We’ll take a table in a secluded corner.”
As she could think of no better place, she went along with him.
Chapter Five
Miss Talbot’s tea parlor was Easton’s favorite meeting spot f
or ladies and abstemious gentlemen. Its dainty linen-covered tables, its lace-edged doilies and plethora of greenery made the ladies feel quite at home. By eleven it would be crowded with shoppers taking a rest, but at nine-thirty it was deserted save for two aging ladies clad in unrelieved black, as they had been for the past decade since the death of their papa.
These were the Misses Harper, spinster sisters who were having their drawing room painted and had left to escape the stench. They greeted Miss Bratty with bright smiles and her partner with avid curiosity. Their heads turned to watch as the young couple took a table in the farthest corner, then leaned together over the tea cups to discuss this interesting event.
Ravencroft asked eagerly, “Where did you hear this?” She gave an admonishing “Shh” as Miss Talbot came bustling forward to take their order. This was not accomplished in a minute. She had to inquire after Lord Ashworth’s health, and Miss Bratty had to inquire for Miss Talbot’s brother, who was in India but wrote weekly. After this friendly overture, Miss Bratty felt it incumbent on her to introduce Mr. Stanford. Miss Talbot waited to learn who or what had brought this gentleman to Easton. Miss Bratty avoided this by extolling to her companion the excellence of Miss Talbot’s gingerbread.
“Yes, it smells delicious. We’ll have it with our tea,” Ravencroft said impatiently.
Miss Talbot darted off, to be waylaid on her way to the kitchen by the Misses Harper, using the excuse of wanting more water for the tea pot to enquire after Miss Bratty’s friend.
Ravencroft immediately resumed his question, “Well, what about Bransom?” he asked.
“I learned last night that he was definitely murdered.”
His brow drew into a questioning frown. “May I ask how you learned this astonishing fact?”
She vacillated, wanting to convince him of the certainty of her news without revealing precisely how she had learned it.
“A load of brandy was brought in last night. The French smugglers were overheard discussing it.”
“By whom?” he demanded at once.
“By our English smugglers, of course.”
“They speak French?”
“No. That is, one of them does.”
“This man keeps an eye open for Ashworth?”
Salvation was handed to her on a platter. “Yes,” she said.
“Why did you not tell me this yesterday? I must meet this fellow at once. Did he learn any details of Bransom’s murder?”
“Alphonse was at the bottom of it. You have the Cougar’s notes, I expect? You know who Alphonse is?”
“Yes, I know all about the “paper” cargo that is coming in. Did Alphonse come to England?”
“Lord Ashworth believes Alphonse arranged the murder in league with his English partner, who most likely did the deed. What we must discover is who is receiving the forged banknotes.”
If Ravencroft noticed that unconscious “we,” he didn’t reveal it. “What, exactly, was said last night?”
“One of the French smugglers asked where Thatchley was. That’s the name Bransom used in the smuggling gang. Cocker – he is the head of the gang – said he had left town.”
“So Cocker is the one who speaks French?” She didn’t enlighten him. “I assume the French aren’t aware of this?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then how did the two converse?” His head was inclined close to hers over the tea cups. He studied her with a demanding intensity. She felt as if he could see right through her.
“One of the Frenchies speaks a little broken English, enough to ask after Thatchley. And Cocker managed to let him know Thatchley had left. Then the Frenchies congratulated themselves, in French, that Bransom’s murder hadn’t been discovered. Alphonse obviously asked them to inquire. If we could find Bransom’s body, it might give us a clue as to who killed him.”
“I expect his body was dropped at sea,” he suggested.
“No, they wouldn’t have been congratulating themselves that the body hadn’t been found unless it could be found. The smugglers didn’t kill him.”
“A good point,” he admitted.
She felt a little glow of pleasure at having got a kind word from him. “The man who receives the forged money must have done it,” she said. “And he would not necessarily have access to a boat to haul the body out to sea. It must be concealed somewhere in this general area.”
“I’ll be driving around today with an estate agent, ostensibly looking for a house to purchase. That will provide me an excuse to pry about and ask questions. Do you know exactly when Bransom was killed?”
“It was talked of a great deal in town. I know from common gossip that he disappeared from the Greenman on the first of October. He took dinner there and went out around nine o’clock alone, saying he was going for a walk. The Gentlemen were not working that night. He hasn’t been seen since.”
“You believe this common gossip is reliable?”
“Oh certainly. The locals would have no reason to lie about such a thing.” He listened, frowning. Amy had told all she knew. The moment had come to broach another subject.
She took a sip of tea and said, “Speaking of gossip, we must determine some means of communication other than my running after you at the inn.”
“You could always send a note.”
“That doesn’t solve the problem. My father’s servants are all known in town. It would still appear that I am chasing after you. The clerk at the Rose and Thistle gave me a very sly look this morning.”
Ravencroft’s mind was so far from romantic chicanery that he didn’t understand what she was saying for a moment, when he did figure it out, it struck him as ridiculous that anyone would think this prim spinster was chasing a man. He worked to hold his lips steady.
And Amy noticed it. She continued in an annoyed manner, “We cannot meet here either. Just look how the Harpers keep grinning at us. They are the worst gossips in town. They will think there is something between us.”
Ravencroft would not have admitted it for worlds but at the bottom of his heart, he felt Miss Bratty should be flattered if folks were saying he was interested in her. Younger, prettier, richer ladies threw themselves at his head with regularity, why should she object? For the first time, he assessed her as a man assesses a woman, disregarding any other interests than her femininity.
He didn’t consciously notice the change of bonnet and pelisse, though as he looked, he realized she looked different than the day before. Better. Prettier. Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks glowed.
He tossed up his hands. “If you cannot come to the inn or send messages, then how are we to communicate?”
“We could meet at the abandoned house at a prearranged hour each day,” she suggested.
This smelled to Ravencroft like a bored lady playing at spying. He had no intention of being tied down, having to ride out to the country every day. “I’m afraid that would be inconvenient for me,” he said firmly.
“Surely your convenience is not the determining factor!”
“It would interfere with my work. I cannot think you will have great news to impart every day. “
It was perfectly obvious to Amy that he wanted to be rid of her. “The Cougar has many contacts. One never knows when he will hear something you should know.”
“Then write me a note, and let the gossips think we are carrying on a clandestine correspondence. What does it matter?”
“It matters to me. You will leave town when this is over. I shall have to stay, with everyone snickering behind my back that you have jilted me.”
The lady had a temper! He looked around the tea room in a bored fashion, then said mischievously, “Well, what do you suggest, Miss Bratty? Am I expected to marry you?”
She sniffed her disdain. “Don’t be ridiculous. I have already made my suggestion. You found it inconvenient.”
“I cannot be held down to a schedule. There is no saying where my work will take me. I suggest you leave a note at the abandoned house if you
have anything to tell me, and I shall have my valet or groom stop there each day to retrieve it. Do you have a preference as to an hour?”
She considered where and when she was likely to learn anything. Bearing in mind her smuggling activities, she suggested nine o’clock in the morning, as she could not like to have his servants out in the middle of the night. She glared and added, “And if anything really important arises, I shall send a note to the inn. I trust you will also keep Lord Ashworth informed of anything you learn. Although he cannot leave his bed, he still takes a keen interest.”
“I would be happy to visit him at the Hall.”
“No, no!” she said at once. Ravencroft’s dark eyebrows drew together in suspicion. “The doctor does not want visitors,” she rushed on. “They excite him too much. I always act as his go-between. “
Their tea was finished. “I’ll see you to your carriage,” he said, tossing a coin on the table.
They were waylaid by the Misses Harper on their way to the door. “We’d like to meet your beau, Miss Bratty,” Miss Matilda said coyly.
“Mr. Stanford is not my beau. He is a friend of Mr. Bratty’s,” she lied. “He is looking for a house in the neighborhood.”
They smiled and simpered and welcomed Mr. Stanford to Easton.
“Ah, a friend of Felix.” They turned to Amy. “And how is your cousin, dear? We haven’t seen him since the summer.”
“He is fine.”
“And your papa?”
“Poorly, I fear. I shall tell him you were asking for him. Nice chatting to you.” She eventually got away.
“You see what I mean,” she said with a tsk. “The tittle tattle is already beginning.”
He pinched his lips in an effort not to smile at her ill humor. “I still think a romance would be the easiest way to explain our meetings. Better than claiming Felix Bratty as a friend of mine,” he added, and was answered by a malignant stare.