Smuggler's Moon

by Bruce Alexander

  “Off nursing our wounded constable. And how is Molly Sarton holding up?” Mrs. Keen shook her head and shivered in a gesture which seemed to express both sympathy and revulsion at the same time.

  “The poor woman,” said she, ”as if she hadn’t suffered enough! And the two of them so much in love! But she’s braving it through. Just asked me to come by to mind the house and”—she lowered her voice to a whisper—”help the blind man. She said you’d be coming by soon.”

  “I fetched our baggage from the Grenville house,” said I.

  “Come along then, let’s get it inside, shall we?”

  And she wasted no time in grabbing the fattest portmanteau and hauling it inside. I took my valise and the remaining portmanteau (Clarissa’s) in hand and wrestled them through the door, then kicked the door shut behind me.

  “Jeremy? Is that you?” Sir John’s voice came from the small room just inside the door—Mr. Sarton’s study.

  “It is, sir.”

  “Come see me here when you’ve done moving the bags up to the bedrooms, will you?”

  “I will, sir.”

  Then down the long hall and up the stairs, pushing the valise ahead and pulling the portmanteau behind. Mrs. Keen had preceded me and deposited Sir John’s big bag in the guest bedroom, where he had been napping. I put my valise inside and looked longingly at the bed—but that, it seemed, would have to wait. By this time, Clarissa’s bag had been tucked inside the master bedroom.

  As we two descended the stairs, it occurred to me to ask after her tearoom: ”Who’s minding your shop, Mrs. Keen?”

  “No one,” said she. ”I put a notice in the window which said that due to a death in the family, the tearoom would be closed for the day. Molly may not be family, strictly speaking, but she’s all the family I’ve got. She’ll have so much to do today—too much. Believe me, I know. I went through it all when my Neddy died.”

  ”Well, with your permission, mum, I’ll leave you now and find out what Sir John has to tell me.”

  “Oh well, go, surely. But when you’re done, come back to the kitchen, and I’ll have something for you.”

  We did then part company, and I started down the hall. I remembered as I went that Mrs. Sarton—Molly—had first mentioned Mrs. Keen to us as a ”widow lady,” and I wondered when it was her Neddy had died—and how. I had no idea how I might find out. Yet perhaps it might be best not to know. I had the uneasy feeling that if I were to inquire, I would discover that his was another life in the smuggling trade which ended violently.

  When I entered the little room just inside the door, Sir John turned in my direction and bade me take a seat. He himself had chosen the place behind the desk where Albert Sarton had sat his last. Others would not have picked it— would have supposed it the unluckiest of places. Sir John, however, had never shown himself to be in the least superstitious, so far as I knew. He did not seem to believe in luck, neither good nor bad.

  “I have had a report of bodies found upon the beach,” said he. ”From what was told me, it seemed to be the very same beach on which you apprehended the smugglers. I took it that none were killed in the course of your battle with them?”

  “No sir, none killed. Only one man—one of theirs—was even wounded.”

  “Well then, it seems that we have three new murders to account for. The man who came with the news was a crusty old fisherman. He would have naught to do with me at first, for he insisted on telling ‘the young magistrate’ about it and only him. I finally managed to convince him that Mr. Sarton was indisposed, that a doctor would be coming soon to visit him—a surgeon, in any case—and that I was handling matters for him temporarily. Though he was not comfortable with it, he gave in at last and said that there were bodies out there on the beach. He said they looked familiar, but he couldn’t put a name on any of them. He promised to wait a bit. Will you go, Jeremy? I know you must be tired, but…”

  I sighed. ”Certainly, Sir John.”

  “Good lad,” said he. ”I’d go with you, but I feel I must wait here for the surgeon.” He screwed his face in annoyance. ”He should have been here by now.”

  At least when I departed the house this time, my coat pocket was well filled with sweet cakes. I know not how many Mrs. Keen had given me, for I did not bother to count as I ate them, but I do know that they brought me strength when I feared that my store was near exhausted.

  It was full daylight by the time I reached the beach. Just as before, I saw the ghostly masts which rose from the water well before I saw the beach proper. Then at last I stood on the bluff and looked down upon the wide strip of sand whereon we had fought our battle less than twelve hours before. From that vantage I saw that all the boats that had last night been pulled up on the beach were now gone—all but one. That one, now near the waterline, was being loaded for departure, lines, nets, oars, bait. He who did the loading was a short man of over fifty years; he worked with a kind of plodding efficiency, evidently determined to be off soon.

  He would not be detained much longer, and so I hurried down to him, kicking sand as I went. Looking up suspiciously as I approached, he then returned to his methodical preparations.

  “You reported three bodies here upon the beach?” I asked. ”I’ve come to view them.”

  “The blind man said he’d send a constable. Are you a constable?” He seemed dubious.

  “Closest thing to it.”

  ”What’s that mean? That you’ll be a constable just as soon as you grow up?”

  “No, it means that I’m close enough to a constable to be a pain in the arse to you if you do not choose to cooperate.” I kept my eyes steady upon his.

  “Oh, it’s that way, is it?” Then did he surprise me by bursting into laughter—and a booming laugh it was for one of modest size. ”So? You got some sand in you, do you? Well, I like a lad who’ll show some pluck,” said he. ”So indeed I’ll tell you all I know, which an’t much. When I come down to start my day, all the fisher lads was up there”—he pointed up the bluff—”lookin’ at something. So naturally, I goes up and takes a look, too, and I see it’s three dead men—each one with a bullet through the brain. ‘What’s this?’ says I to the fisher lads. ‘What’s it look like?’ says they to me. Then one of them says he heard shooting and even a big boom like a cannon last night, and these three dead ones must be the result of it all. Then says I, ‘Somebody ought to go up and tell the magistrate.’ Then they come back at me, sayin’, ‘If you think that, then you’re the one should go.’ So I went and told the blind man, and when I got back, the fisher lads was all gone. I’ve been beat out to the shoals where the herring swim for my good deed. Satisfied?”

  “That all you’ve got to tell?”

  He began pushing his boat out toward the water. ”That’s all.”

  “Could you point out where to look for the three bodies?”

  “Up there.” Standing and pointing. ”See? Just this side of that bushy, grassy place, you can see a leg sticking out.”

  The place he pointed out was the very same spot whereat Mr. Perkins and I had spent hours of last night waiting for the smugglers to appear.

  “Oh yes,” said the fisherman, turning back to me, ”there was one more thing.”

  ”And what was that?”

  “Those dead men up there, I never knew them, but I saw one of them about town. One of the fisher lads seemed to know who they were, though. He said they were in the owling trade.”

  Having said it, he pushed the boat out into the sea, and with a quick, spry movement, he jumped inside it. He was then far too busy with the oars to bother further with me.

  I turned round and started up the sand bluff. As I climbed, it occurred to me that I should have asked the fisherman the name of him who knew the three up ahead as smugglers. Would I ever learn?

  As I came upon them, the three seemed to me to lay together where they had fallen. There was no sign that they had been moved. And though there were footprints aplenty in the soft dry sand, they we
re not the sort that would give a distinct and separate trace. It did appear, however, that a good many men had left the site, as many as ten—though there was no way to be exact.

  I bent down and examined the bodies more closely. Immediately I saw that the wounds each had received were quite like the one which had felled Mr. Sarton. Judging from their size, they might well have been inflicted by the same weapon, or at least three weapons of the same bore and weight. The wounds were also placed similarly—that is, between and just above the eyes. And the faces of all three men had been blackened by the discharge of powder. All this was enough to tell me that the murder in Middle Street had likely been committed by the same man—or by one of the same men.

  I grasped the cold hand of one of the victims and moved his arm, feeling no resistance or rigidity. What Mr. Donnelly named ”rigor mortis” (Latin, I was certain) had not taken over the limbs of the corpus. I repeated this with the other two and had the same result—as expected. But I happened to look more closely at the face of the third, and I noted that there was something familiar about it. What was it? Where had I seen him before? The identity of this man did, of a sudden, take possession of me. The question of who he might be took on great urgency.

  I went so far as to whip out my kerchief, which was reasonably clean, run down to the waterline with it, and dip it. I ran back, holding it, dripping water all the way. Then, returned, I rubbed at his face with the wet linen, removing the layer of gun-soot from it, rubbing it until at last it shone clean enough there in the morning sun. And who should appear before my eyes but Samson Strong, who had testified in his own defense and that of his fellows regarding their misadventure with Mr. Perkins. And these other two—could they be those who had appeared with him before the Deal magistrate? Indeed they could, though I had not seen them well enough from where I sat to be sure of it. What had these three done to deserve such a punishment?

  EIGHT

  In which I journey

  to London and

  voyage back by ship

  Upon returning to Sir John, I gave my report and offered to notify the mortician that the bodies on the beach might be collected and prepared for burial. Yet he declined, saying that the surgeon, who had been to the house in Middle Street and gone, had volunteered to attend to it. Sir John ordered me to bed in the guestroom above. Never did I obey an order of his with greater pleasure. So great was my pleasure, indeed, that I came near to sleeping the clock round—and perhaps I would have done just that, had I not been wakened early in the morning by Clarissa, who informed me that I must arise and catch the first coach to London.

  “To London?” said I, all surprised. ”Are we to leave with so much unresolved?”

  “Not we,” said she, ”but you. You are to carry and deliver a number of letters there.”

  ”What sort of letters? To whom?”

  “Sir John will explain all as soon as he wakes.”

  “Wakes? Where did he sleep?”

  “Why, with you, part of the night. Have you no memory of it? Just now he is dozing at the desk in that little room by the front door.”

  I grunted in response, rubbing my eyes, seeking full wakefulness.

  “Come, Jeremy, you must get up,” said she. ”Mrs. Sarton is fixing a fine breakfast for you.”

  That was all the encouragement that I required. I ordered Clarissa from my room and leapt into my clothes. Indeed I was hungry, and who would not be after so long a sleep? Now that I was awake, my empty stomach sent up urgent messages that might only be satisfied by a considerable meal.

  And that, reader, was what was given me. Mrs. Sarton was clearly determined to carry on, making herself useful, in spite of her evident sadness. To see her thus, so unlike the Molly Sarton we had come to know, was indeed disappointing; nevertheless, though it was true she did not smile, it was also true that except for those first minutes when she wept inconsolably over her fallen husband, I did not see her shed another tear all the time we were in Deal. And in that time she saw to her husband’s burial, buried him, attended to certain matters for Sir John, and cooked for a small army. She was equal to all that was asked of her.

  I shall not specify all that she put before me at that noble breakfast, for truth to tell, I do not remember. Let it suffice to say that I ate well and hearty enough to last me through a day of hard traveling. At the end of it, whilst I was lingering over my cup of tea, Clarissa came down the long hall to the kitchen and summoned me to a meeting with Sir John.

  “Is it so near time to go?” I asked her.

  ”Soon,” said she, ”but Sir John would have a word with you first.”

  I nodded, rose, and followed her back down the hall. I noted—for the first time, I believe—that Clarissa’s hips had grown (how shall I put it?) more substantial, more shapely, since last I looked. I thought that odd. Was this gawky girl becoming a woman?

  As I entered the room, I expected Clarissa to accompany me. But no, she hung back at the door that she might call to Sir John to send me off in a few minutes’ time.

  Sir John pushed three letters cross the desk to me.

  “Jeremy,” said he, ”these letters are important, among the most important I’ve ever asked you to deliver.” He hesitated. ”Are you armed?”

  “Well … yes sir, I kept one of the pistols issued to me. It’s tucked away in the pocket of my coat.”

  “Loaded?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “It goes without saying that you’re certainly not to use it, or even brandish it, except in the most extreme situation. What that should be, I leave to you.”

  “I understand, Sir John.”

  “Since these letters were dictated last night to Clarissa and are now sealed, I’ll give you some idea of their contents. The first is to Lord Mansfield, the Lord Chief Justice. In it, I have asked him for temporary powers here in Deal. I shall be, in effect, the magistrate of Deal for a period not to exceed a month. This should be delivered direct into his hands, and the proper document should be given you to carry away. Find him, no matter where he may be. Do you understand?”

  “I do.”

  “Very well. The other two letters are no less important, but they depend upon the powers to be granted me by Lord Mansfield, and so they are to be delivered after you have the document of appointment in your pocket. They are, in effect, invitations to Mr. John Bilbo and to constables Bailey and Patley to join us in Gravesend.”

  “Ah well, that should be pleasant,” said I, not knowing quite what else to say—though why we should be going to Gravesend I could not surmise. ”Seeing them all again, that is.”

  “For us, perhaps,” Sir John replied sharply.

  I knew not how I had offended. ”Yes sir, will that be all, sir?”

  He sighed deeply. ”It should be. If all goes well, I should see you again in three days.”

  “So soon?”

  “Just so.”

  “Sir John?” It was Clarissa, calling in from the hall. ”He must leave now.”

  I stood and gathered up the letters from the top of the desk; then did I tuck them away safely in my coat pocket.

  “Well then, sir, goodbye to you,” said I to him.

  “And Godspeed to you, Jeremy.”

  His face sagged. He looked quite exhausted. I wondered how much—or how little—he had slept. Yet I had not time to think long upon it, for well I knew that if I were to miss the coach to London, it would extend my absence for another full day.

  Out in the hall, at the front door, I found Clarissa waiting for me. To my surprise, she held my valise in her hand.

  “I packed your bag for you—two clean shirts and two pair of hose and two books.”

  “Two books?”

  “Gulliver’s Travels and a Latin grammar. That’s what you were reading, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but how did you know that?”

  She shrugged. ”I noticed—simple as that. But you must be on your way, Jeremy.”

  Then, throwing open the door, she hand
ed me my valise, leaned forward, and quite unexpectedly kissed me upon my cheek. More of her girlish nonsense it was, but in truth, I liked it well enough that I gave her a grin as I planted my hat upon my head and ran out the door.

  I was halfway to Market Street when I heard my name called, turned round, and saw Clarissa in the middle of the street.

  “Jeremy!” she shouted loud enough for all the neighbors to hear. ”Do not forget to wear a clean shirt and clean hose when you visit the Lord Chief Justice!”

  I nodded and waved my assent. Then did I turn round and run fast as I could to Broad Street.

  Of the journey by coach to London, there is little to say. During the short distances in which the horses were walked, and whilst at the rest stops along the way, I was able to read a little from Gulliver’s Travels. For the most part, however, the rocking and bouncing of the coach made it quite impossible. The interior compartment was quite crowded, as seemed in those days always to be the case. Yet I had me a seat by a window and thus was able to study the countryside as it reeled by at galloping speed. This held my attention far better than I would have supposed, for a different route to London had been chosen, one which during its final stages followed along the south bank of the Thames. Thus, after many hours and a bit of fitful dozing, I arrived in London early in the morning.

  Taking my valise in hand, I hurried from the Coach House to Number 4 Bow Street. I made the trip, it seemed, in a short time, for the streets were not yet crowded with the hordes on the march to their day’s employment. In truth, I had taken to heart Clarissa’s caution against wearing my soiled shirt and hose to visit Lord Mansfield. I entered by the door which led to the strong room and the Bow Street Runners’ province—the area which Sir John referred to as Bow Street’s backstage. Mr. Baker, gaoler and armorer, caught sight of me as I was about to ascend the stairs to our living quarters.

  “Hi, Jeremy,” he called to me, ”is Sir John returned?”

  “Uh, no, Mr. Baker,” said I. ”He sent me back on an errand.”

  “Going back to Kent, then?”

  “Oh yes.”