In one easy movement, he dismounted with Selina in his arms and burst through the front door.
He ignored the cries of surprise from Mrs White, but her startled reaction brought William and Edgar to the door of the drawing room door where Comte Alexandre, Edith, Catherine and a heavily pregnant Sarah were beginning to rise from their seats.
He could hear Mrs White trail behind him, calling to one of the upstairs maids to fetch warm dry clothes for the Master and Miss Selina.
Lady Margaret and Lady Christina, hearing the commotion, emerged from the suites on the second floor and joined the procession through James’ private reception room and into the bedroom itself.
Sarah moved past him as he gently placed Selina on a foot stool. The four women, along with two maids, set to work divesting her of her now saturated clothes. James gave her one last glance before closing the bedroom door.
In his reception room, he accepted a towel from Jackson and began stripping off his own wet clothes.
He found himself faced by a furious William Rosewall.
“What the hell is going on Penventen? What’s wrong with Selina?” he demanded.
“She fell from her horse but she's unharmed,” James assured him. “She's winded and wet from the rain.”
William let out a pent-up huff of breath and laid aside his anger.
James turned to Jackson, towelling himself as he spoke.
“There are wreckers on the cliff at Gunver Head. They’re after the Zeus.”
William straightened. He knew that ship.
James didn’t let him ask the inevitable question before he answered it.
“She’s carrying a king’s ransom in gold. We must raise a posse to go to them.”
Jackson had gathered dry clothing for James. He tossed it across a chair and disappeared down the hall to recruit men among the staff to help give pursuit to the gang on the cliff.
“I have men in Padstow,” William offered.
“Then get them to the cove beneath the cliffs. Jackson and I will lead a party to the top of the cliffs and send a rider to the barracks. Pray that Colonel Pickering and his men are able to stop the gang setting up a false beacon at Polzeath.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
6 August 1790
The setting sun painted the late afternoon clouds with streaks of bloody red.
The old saying “red sky at night, sailor’s delight” came reflexively to James as he scrubbed his tired face and looked from the window of Custom House where a man of interest was being held.
The Zeus had sailed safely along the Cornish coast and was now well into its journey towards Europe.
James’ posse and William’s crew had captured eight men the previous night, five on the shore and three on the cliffs above. Another five men on the cliff escaped in the melee just as Lieutenant Walsh arrived with reinforcements and news from Colonel Pickering that his force had stopped a false light beacon on the headland of Polzeath. Three men were in custody there; three escaped.
The clash with the wreckers at Gunver Head was not without casualty among the forces of order. Two of William Rosewall’s sailors were moderately injured in the fight on the beach, while on the cliffs overhead, Jackson had received a gash to his arm.
After seeing to the welfare of the men under his charge and the secure incarceration of their prisoners, James sent for word of Selina. When the message came back that she was still sleeping, he fixed on an interrogation which went through the rest of the night and into the next day.
A small number of the men were ruffians—career criminals for hire; others were locals who considered the extracurricular activity of smuggling an acceptable way to supplement their income.
However, none knew who was the mastermind of their venture, only that they would be paid well for their work.
Now they faced an audience with the magistrate, a trial after that and, should they be fortunate enough to avoid a hanging, they would be unfortunate enough to face transportation.
One of the captured men was, time and again, identified by his cohorts, as the organiser and paymaster. It was he who James now waited to question for a second time.
In an initial interview, the man had disavowed his role of organiser, claiming that he had simply relayed instructions and resources that had come from a Mr Reynold.
The name Reynold was the reason why James remained in the small office. It was the name that had been invoked when he and Selina had been followed through the streets of London.
Reynold’s man had tried to warn him off, and made the oblique threat to Selina.
James was going to see this through to the end.
The office door opened. Colonel Pickering entered looking less polished but more dangerous than James could ever remember seeing him. His overnight stubble matched the grey of his temples and the darkness under his eyes gave him a vaguely threatening air.
Nonetheless, his voice was brisk. “You should be at home, Lord Penventen.”
“Not until I find out who this Reynold character is,” replied James.
Pickering folded his arms. “Well you’re not going to learn anything further for at least another twelve hours.”
“This man threatened me and my wife-to-be.”
Pickering would brook no argument.
“My men are going off-duty to rest,” he told James firmly. “Our prisoners are in custody and are going nowhere. I have a unit from Newquay that will be patrolling the roads out of Padstow and Newquay.
“Go home.”
James shook his head as much to clear the fatigue as to refute the Colonel’s argument. Through heavy lids he looked at the older man.
“You’ll send someone to the Hall when you’re ready to interrogate Morgan?” he asked, reluctantly taking up his crumpled jacket as he stood.
“The man's name is Morcombe and, yes, I’ll personally let you know.”
Pickering slapped him on the back in camaraderie.
“Lady Catherine saw to your wet kit being returned to Penventen Hall,” he told James. “She says the doctor has seen Miss Selina again and she will be well when she has recovered from bruises and a chill.
“Oh, and he’s put a few stitches in the arm of your man Jackson.”
“The other wounded men?”
“I'm told they're no more worse than they would have been on a Friday night brawling at the tavern.”
James offered a tired smile in acknowledgement and paused in the doorway.
“I’m convinced Reynold is the key to this,” he explained. “If we find him and the puppet master who pulls his strings, then we have the potential to end the means to fund revolution on English soil.”
With a firm hand on James' shoulder Pickering steered the younger man down the stairs and through the passage ways to the front door.
A young soldier on guard stood to attention at the Colonel's appearance.
“Bring Lord Penventen’s horse, private.”
The man saluted and went to carry out the order.
“I know my duty, my Lord, and I don’t underestimate its importance,” Pickering said kindly.
“Lady Catherine and I are looking forward to attending a wedding in two weeks and it wouldn’t do for the bride and groom to be indisposed. Go home and get some sleep, sir.”
* * *
Selina woke to whispering voices. Her head pounded furiously, so at first she refused to open her eyes in order to keep the pain to marginally tolerable levels.
Then curiosity got the better of her and she ventured opening one eye and then the other, surprised that the very act hadn’t exhausted her completely.
The curtains on the bed, gauzy white inners and heavy red outer drapes, were closed between the four barley twist posts.
“I’m awake,” she croaked hoarsely.
The bed curtains opened swiftly and the sudden infusion of light was as startling as it was agonising. She clenched her eyes shut.
Selina counted to ten in her head before she
attempted to open them again. The face that came swimming into view was Sarah's.
“Selina, darling,” she exclaimed softly. “We’ve been so worried about you! Here, take a small sip of water.”
Despite the growing weight of her pregnancy, Sarah moved with the brisk assurance of a mother well used to soothing and tending invalids.
Selina accepted the water gratefully, letting the cool liquid trickle down her raw throat.
Sarah smiled at Selina’s expression and leaned in.
“Although it’s highly improper, I have someone here to see you.” she grinned.
Sarah now had Selina’s full attention and, over her shoulder, James appeared, looking haggard and concerned.
Sarah withdrew, telling them that she would be back after consulting with Lady Margaret and Lady Christina. It appeared that Sarah Rosewall was the only woman in England who could effectively marshal both mother and daughter.
James smiled tiredly, sat on the edge of the bed, and took her hand. He kissed Selina on the forehead.
“You’re running a temperature,” he noted.
“A small one,” she assured him with a squeeze of her hand. Her eyes wandered over his form looking for injuries, but found none.
“You look tired,” she observed.
“Nothing a day’s sleep won’t cure.”
“Not the most romantic way of getting me into your bed,” smiled Selina.
James allowed himself a chuckle. Selina tried to join in but it ended in a hacking cough. Another sip of water eased the spasms.
She spoke briefly, the pain in her throat acute. “What happened?”
James held a finger to her lips.
“I’ll speak, you rest, agreed?”
Selina nodded and listened intently as he outlined the events of the past twenty-four hours.
“The Zeus is safely on her way to Gibraltar but, more importantly, you are safe and my duty to William Pitt and the Crown is complete,” he finished. “No more intrigue, no more scandals, just you.”
He punctuated the words with a kiss to her cheek.
“And me,” he said, ending the sentence with a soft kiss to her lips.
“Your sister will be back soon. Will you promise me you will get some rest? You have a wedding to plan.”
Selina smiled and James stood.
As though on cue, the door opened and Sarah peered in. William hovered over her shoulder.
“Get some sleep?” she asked James hopefully.
“I will. They won’t interrogate Morcombe again until tomorrow morning.”
James leaned down and gave her another sweet kiss. He was about to leave when Selina firmly grasped his hand.
He looked at her surprised by the alarmed expression that had appeared on her face.
“Selina? Are you ill?”
She shook her head.
“No. It's the man,” she coughed. “The man who tried to unhorse me… it was Fidget.”
“Who’s fidgeting?” William approached the bed.
He too looked tired and there was a sizeable bruise on his cheek.
Selina shook her head again in frustration, aware that her voice wouldn’t hold out much longer. She squeezed James’ hand harder, trying to make him appreciate the importance of her news.
“Fidget… the harbour… my sketches.”
“Sketches?” asked Sarah. “Shall I fetch them for you?”
Selina nodded. “Secret drawer... writing box.”
Her eyes implored James.
“Where’s the key, Selina?” he asked.
Selina struggled to sit up in bed. Every muscle ached. Whether it was from the fall or the subsequent chill, she couldn’t tell. She reached for a fine gold chain from around her neck. Beneath a locket that had been her mother's was the key.
Sarah left the room and both men hovered by the bed.
“Are you telling me that you know the man who attacked you yesterday?” James asked.
“Attacked? What's this?” demanded William. “When were you going to tell me this?”
Without the energy to deal with her brother, Selina concentrated on James and the vital message she had to tell him.
“I call the man Fidget. From the Harbour.”
Sarah came back into the room with a small sketchbook bound in leather, and Selina reached for it immediately. After flicking through a few pages she found what she was looking for and presented the book for the two men to see. Many faces, but all of one man.
“Fidget,” she announced.
“You’re sure that’s the man?” William asked.
Selina gave an emphatic nod of her head.
“He’s not amongst the men arrested,” he observed.
“That might be something in our favour,” reasoned James. “Let’s see if Morcombe knows. “If we can identify this man, we might be a step closer to finding Reynold and ending this conspiracy for good.
* * *
7 August 1790
Weak, diffuse light from a high, narrow window, its thick panes salt-encrusted from years of Cornish coastal weather, was all that lit the holding cell. A wooden slatted seat stood in the pallid beam of light as though it were the only piece of furniture in the room.
A soldier nudged Morcombe forward into the room and pushed him onto the seat, then took up station on the wall behind him.
The room was little warmer than the cell in which he had spent the night. His shackled hands were still on his lap, but his eyes darted furtively around the room.
Colonel Pickering entered the room carrying a leather covered note book in one hand and a lit candle in a tin holder in the other. He placed both objects on the table and sat down. He said nothing to the man in front of him, instead opening the notebook and spending some time studying several pages.
Although just a couple of years separated the two men in age, the difference in their physical bearing couldn’t have been more stark.
Where the Colonel stood tall, Morcombe stooped; a legacy from the back-breaking labour of mining. Pickering was greying at the temples, but healthy and stalwart in appearance; Morcombe was grey in complexion and missing three top teeth and two below, causing his mouth to appear misshapen.
Pickering closed the book and met Morcombe’s sideways look of curiosity.
Morcombe returned his gaze, more from defiance than confidence.
The Colonel smiled. He withdrew from his jacket pocket his pipe and a chamois tobacco pouch, pulled out a wad of fresh cut tobacco, and tamped it down into the bowl of the pipe. The pipe stem between his teeth, Pickering felt inside the pouch once more, found a taper, and lit it on the candle, then transferred the flame to the bowl of the pipe, causing the tobacco to glow and sputter.
The Colonel blew out the taper with a mouthful of smoke, pinched its end between thumb and forefinger to ensure its complete extinguishment, and looked across at Morcombe while drawing thoughtfully on the pipe. The prisoner inhaled audibly as the plume of smoke drifted lazily across the two yards separating the men.
Pickering smiled again. “Not much longer to go, Morcombe, then you can have some tobacco yourself.”
“I dunno what more you want to know,” Morcombe replied gruffly. “If you ain’t onto Reynold by now, then I can’t help ye.”
“I think you know more than you’re telling us,” said a voice from the shadows.
Morcombe jumped. He stared in the direction of the voice, a darkened corner beneath the high window.
“Do you, Morcombe? Do you know more than you’ve told us?” the Colonel asked mildly.
“I swear I told you everythin’ I know!”
“Everything except where Reynold is, who Reynold is and why he’d hire a group of ne’er-do-wells and misfits like you.” James emerged from the darkness.
Morcombe looked at the young Lord with a bitter sneer.
“I never met the man a’fore this year. He seemed to know about me though. Tol’ me all about m’past an’ asked if I wanted to make five quid.”
“Doing what?”
“I've already said.”
“So say it again.”
Morcombe's nostrils flared and he pouted as he answered.
“He said I had to get twelve men what I trusted who wanted to earn a pound each for their troubles.”
“When was this?” James prompted.
“In January. In Newquay. In a pub,” Morcombe answered impatiently. His face hardened with surliness. “Look, I've already told about all of this. It’s a waste of your precious time, milord…”
“Tell me about the Pandora,” James interrupted.
“The what?”
“The ship wrecked in February.”
Morcombe's eyes narrowed.
“That were Reynold’s doing,” he started cautiously, “I did nothin’ but take barrels of brandy. That were after the ship were already wrecked. I know nothin’ ’bout the men that was killed.”
“How many times did you meet Reynold?” asked Pickering.
“Not more than a dozen times.”
“How did you know how to find him?”
“I never did. ’e found me.” The prisoner offered a sharp laugh on fetid breath. “Not that I was hard to find—at the pub ’til closing time every day ’cept Sunday when I've an ’angover.”
He smirked at James.
“Does Reynold have a Christian name?” James asked.
Morcombe turned his face up to his questioner with contempt clear in his face.
“I’m sure ’is mother knows.”
James cuffed the man hard across the side of his head, the slap loud in the confines of the cell. Morcombe started to rise from the chair with a bark of rage, only to be firmly pushed back down by the soldier who stepped up behind him.
“Try again,” James growled.
“I heard ’im speak to someone in Newquay a couple of times, a foreigner or maybe a toff. I can’t tell the difference. ’e might have called him ’enry.”
“Why do you say he was foreign?”
“Or a toff. He dressed like a gent. Maybe ’e’s one o’ your friends.”
James glared, but made no move towards the prisoner.
Pickering spoke mildly, almost with disinterest, forcing Morcombe to switch his attention between his interrogators again.
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