She walked along the deck, looking for evidence. There was some discolouration on the wood, but she could not identify its cause. A door and a short staircase led down to a single, cramped room. Against the far wall was a large chest, which was unlocked but contained only clothing. She examined every other drawer and unlocked container on the boat, but she found nothing, besides several small, locked boxes which she could not open. She even looked for the sort of hiding places Mr. Holloway would have liked, and although she found a few promising spots, there was nothing inside.
She returned to the large chest, this time, going through it more slowly, examining it item by item. It was lined by fabric, but as she pushed down on the fabric and board at the bottom of the chest, she felt them give slightly. She tugged along the edges of the base, found a spot for her fingers, and pulled. Underneath was a hidden compartment.
Inside she found Mr. Holloway’s coat. If you had murdered a man, why would you keep his cloak? Mary could not fathom that decision; of course, she could also not fathom the decision to murder a man in the first place. Inside one of the cloak’s pockets was another of Mr. Holloway’s missing notebooks. If she was not mistaken, this was the notebook she had seen him with that final day when he spoke with Mr. Withrow in the forest. It certainly was in his handwriting and included his notes on various matters, written in a more complete and clear style than the other two notebooks in her and Mr. Tagore’s possession. In a different ink, someone else—likely Colonel Radcliffe—had written their own notes and interpretations on top of the pages.
She examined the other objects in the hidden compartment. Tucked inside another man’s coat, she found a knife in a sheath. She slid it carefully out. It was longer and sharper than a kitchen knife, and might be the knife that had stabbed Holloway, though if it was, it had been cleaned. There was also a wrapped package that contained papers. She browsed through them, discovering detailed plans of how Bonaparte could attack and subdue this region of England; this was proof of what she had heard the night of the ball. Mary wondered what Sir Pickering had thought of her letter, and if an anonymous letter would be enough for him to take action against Colonel Radcliffe and Monsieur Corneau. She carefully placed all the items back as she had found them and secured the hidden compartment.
She heard voices on the pier. If she was not mistaken, it was the dockmaster and Colonel Radcliffe.
Her eyes darted left and right, searching for a place to hide. She could not swim, and they were on the pier, so she could not leave the boat without them seeing her. But there were no rooms or compartments inside the boat where she might hide herself and remain undiscovered should someone come aboard.
She climbed into the chest and crouched down amongst the clothes, pulling the lid closed on top of herself. She could hardly breathe, and the fabric pressing against her was cold and rough.
The footsteps were above her, and then the door to the staircase creaked open. The men were on the boat.
“I assure you,” said the dockmaster, “nothing was taken from my office, nothing was missing. I am sure it was one of the village boys again. I will catch them at it before long.”
“Has anyone asked if I own a boat, after the original search?” said Colonel Radcliffe.
“Not at all, sir, not at all.”
There was silence, and the footsteps came closer and then stopped, very close, perhaps even next to the chest in which she hid.
Mary was struck, suddenly, by the knowledge that this was how Mr. Holloway had died, this, or a very similar way. He had snuck on board to try to find something, some piece of information. Colonel Radcliffe had boarded, and Holloway hid himself. Radcliffe had sailed off to sea, discovered Holloway, and known that Holloway knew too much. He had then stabbed Holloway and pushed him overboard. The same could happen to Mary. Her body would wash ashore, the truth she knew would be lost, she would be mourned by her family and a few family friends, and then, she would be forgotten.
“I have heard Sir Pickering is still in Worthing, and asking questions,” said Colonel Radcliffe. “If events go…unpleasantly…I will need to leave in haste. Make sure my boat is ready for me.”
They bid their farewells, but it seemed, from the footsteps and other sounds on the boat, that someone had stayed. After a few minutes, Mary feared suffocation more than she feared discovery, so she cracked the lid of the chest a little for more air. But she did not leave, she could not, not for many long minutes until there were no more footsteps, no more noises.
Mary climbed out of the chest, promising herself that she would never again use such a dreadful, cramped hiding place. In fact, she would prefer if her life went back to normal and she never had to hide anywhere again. Better to embrace the tedium of embroidering to the sound of her aunt’s gossip than risk life and limb for the sake of a dead man who had attempted to harm her family.
The boat appeared different than when she had boarded—the sails and ropes were all in different positions. She did not know anything about sailing, but, based on the overheard conversation, she assumed that the boat was now ready for a voyage. She pulled the ragged, smelly cloak tighter around herself, made sure it covered most of her face, and then leapt off the boat onto the pier.
She landed with a thud, and for a moment stayed crouched down, sure she had been heard, but the dockmaster did not come. She stood upright and walked slowly across the dock, and then more quickly once she neared the end of the dockmaster’s office.
The dockmaster stepped out and called to her, but she ignored him, hastening her pace.
“Who goes there?” the dockmaster shouted. She glanced back and saw him shake his fist. Then he began to chase her.
In that moment, Mary abandoned everything that she had been taught as a woman of proper breeding: she ran.
She could remember distinctly the last time she had run, at seven years of age. She had been playing a game with Lydia and Kitty, she had tripped and fallen, and after that decided she was too old for that sort of game.
Mary’s shoes hit hard on the wooden docks, and then on the stone cobblestones, and still she ran until she was out of breath, ran until she no longer heard the sounds of the dockmaster behind her. Despite the pain in her lungs, her side, and her legs, there was something surprisingly agreeable about running. She looked back and saw no sign of the dockmaster. She did not believe he had seen her clearly, especially with the size of her hood, and hopefully he did not realize that she had been near Colonel Radcliffe’s boat, but there was no help for it now, nothing to do but to keep moving on the path she had set for herself.
As she walked down the streets of Worthing, it began to rain. There was a gathering of people outside the inn, so Mary approached.
“What be happenin’?” she asked a woman, remembering to speak in a way that matched her cloak.
The woman stepped back from Mary, eying the cloak with distaste. “It appears that Sir Pickering is inside, speakin’ with Colonel Radcliffe.”
“What about?” asked Mary.
The woman pretended not to hear her question and walked away. Surely Sir Pickering must be investigating Colonel Radcliffe after reading her letter.
She considered entering the inn and declaring all she knew, but something held her back. She walked up and down the street, examining her motivations. She did feel a small amount of fear, but it was a small fear compared to what she felt earlier, trapped on a boat by herself with a killer. Under further consideration, she realized her true hesitance came from other reasons.
If she took Sir Pickering aside, Colonel Radcliffe would be suspicious, and perhaps take the chance to flee. His boat was ready, and Bonaparte would welcome him with open arms.
She could barge in and make the accusations publicly, but if she did so, then everyone would know that she was responsible, and she might not discover the rest of the truth. For though she knew the identity of the murderer and of the plot to assist Bonaparte, she had more she needed to learn. Beyond a connection with Anne’s
death, how was Holloway connected to Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow? What were they doing with all their secretive actions? If she revealed herself now, the public knowledge of it could prevent additional spying on her part.
She walked purposely through town, pausing only for a moment next to a fabric shop, with their lovely wares on display, the sort of fabric Fanny might love to own for herself. Maybe she would come back to this shop. For now, she entered one of the alleyways.
Mary found the poor woman not far from where they had met originally. The baby was significantly larger and looked better fed than the first time they had met. The woman wore a cloak just as ragged as the one she had sold Mary, despite the fact that Mary’s payment could have bought a substantially better one.
“What is your name?” asked Mary. In their previous conversation she had not asked, but now, since Mary had sought her out intentionally, it seemed important.
“Mine name’s Harriet.”
“It is a pleasure to officially meet you, Harriet. If it is not too much trouble, I need your help again.”
Harriet smiled. “Oh, I like ’elping you.” She began to undo the ties on her cloak. “You be needin’ another?”
“No,” said Mary quickly. “No more clothing. What I need will be a little more difficult.” Mary described, in detail, her plan. “Make sure to demand that as many people as possible be there, and make sure to find the hidden compartment, and have the magistrate examine every single item.”
“And you say I gets five pound?”
“Yes, five pounds. The reward was in the papers.”
“I would give anyone up for five pound. I won’t make a boffle of it.”
“Now remember,” said Mary, “you must not mention me, for I am certain they will ask who gave you this information.”
“I wunt be druv,” said Harriet. It was a common expression in the area, and meant, more or less, I won’t do that, or I won’t be driven by anyone but myself. “B’side I don’t want to share the five pound with you.”
Mary saw an opportunity to add even more motivation for silence. “If you tell them about me, they might decide, since I discovered it originally, to give the entire reward to me.”
“I wunt be druv,” repeated the woman. “Now don’t you be in no gurt fuss about it. I be about my task now.” She turned and walked confidently in the direction of the inn.
Mary followed her at a distance. She could not leave Harriet to her own devices and hope that everything happened the way it ought. She had to stay, she had to be a witness that justice was brought to pass.
Harriet entered the inn. From where she stood across the street, Mary heard a fair bit of commotion; Sir Pickering’s men came and went, and soon Colonel Coates and several other officers from the militia were gathered, as well as a number of other notable individuals from the community. The only person not present was Monsieur Corneau. Mary assumed that either Harriet had forgotten to ask for him, or he had not been found.
The door of the inn opened again, and this time Sir Pickering and Colonel Radcliffe, Harriet and her baby, exited, followed by a train of other individuals.
“This is ridiculous,” said Colonel Radcliffe, gesturing at Harriet. “I have never seen this peasant before in my life. What can she possibly have to say against me?”
“If her suspicions are shown to be invalid,” said Sir Pickering, “then this will be very short. Now, Miss Harriet, since you will not tell us the location of your evidence, please lead the way.”
Mary joined the end of the procession as they made their way down to the docks. None of the people seemed bothered by the rain; of course, in this area of the country, they had over a dozen words for different types of mud, so a little rain must not bother them. When they arrived at the docks, the dockmaster exited his office and bowed obsequiously to Sir Pickering, not once, but three times.
“I do not own, or have access to any boat,” said Colonel Radcliffe loudly.
“That is yet to be determined,” said Sir Pickering. “Now, Miss Harriet, I assume you have brought us here to show us a particular boat.”
“Yes, he does have a boat.” Harriet deliberately looked up and down the wharf.
“Well?” said Sir Pickering.
“There’s a good many boats,” said Harriet. “But I will remember, I will.”
After half a minute, Harriet still stood on the dock, bouncing her baby on her hip rather vigorously, still looking back and forth.
The crowd was rumbling in annoyance, and Mary was about to reveal herself when Sir Pickering turned to the dockmaster.
“Mr. Kempthorne. Perhaps you could tell us.”
“I have shown you the records afore,” said Mr. Kempthorne. “Colonel Radcliffe has no boat.”
“The colonel’s paid ’im to keep it off the record,” said Harriet, triumphantly repeating what Mary had told her.
“If this is true,” said Sir Pickering, “you may be aiding and abetting a murder. That is a very serious crime.”
The dockmaster’s entire body tensed, and he seemed to make a swift decision to save himself rather than his benefactor. “Colonel Radcliffe does own a boat,” he admitted. “And he has paid me to keep it secret.”
“Did Colonel Radcliffe come with his boat in the weeks before he took up residence here?”
“Many times,” said the dockmaster. “I would need to check my records to be certain of the dates.”
“I did not know you had a boat, good chap,” said Colonel Coates to Colonel Radcliffe. “We should go sailing together.”
The dockmaster led the way to Colonel Radcliffe’s boat. Mary lingered at the back of the crowd.
“This is not my boat,” insisted Colonel Radcliffe.
Sir Pickering ignored him and gestured for the dockmaster to lay out a gangplank. “Please, join me aboard,” said Sir Pickering. Colonel Radcliffe did so, as well as Colonel Coates, two other officers, and Sir Pickering’s men.
“Interesting,” said Sir Pickering, leaning down and touching the wood. “This is a trace of a blood stain that appears to have been bleached off.”
“There’s an awmry,” said Harriet from where she stood on the pier. “With more you will be findin’ useful.”
“Where is this…awmry?” asked Sir Pickering.
“It’s a… It’s inside, inside the boat. Below. And it ’as a secret compartment, on the bottom of it, on the inside.” Sir Pickering—and everyone else—must know that Harriet had never seen either the boat or the chest for herself. Mary could only hope that when pressed for answers, Harriet would not reveal the identity of her informant.
“Bring the chest up here,” Sir Pickering directed his men, and after short work they returned with it.
“The chest is labeled C. Radcliffe.” Sir Pickering spoke loudly, as if he felt it were important for all in the crowd to hear. “Now let me see if I can find this hidden compartment.”
Colonel Radcliffe appeared increasingly uncomfortable. Several of the officers seemed to notice this and kept their hands ready at their swords.
“A coat,” observed Sir Pickering. He held it up for display. “Here, in the pocket, is a notebook belonging to Mr. Holloway.”
“I do not know how that came to be here,” insisted Colonel Radcliffe. “I was not aware of the hidden compartment in this chest, which was a recent acquisition.”
Sir Pickering ignored Colonel Radcliffe’s protests and continued his examination. “A knife. It is a possible match for the one used to stab Mr. Holloway. Now what have we here?” He did a cursory glance at the papers. “Plans to assist Bonaparte in an invasion…very detailed plans, Colonel Radcliffe, in your handwriting, involving you and Monsieur Corneau.”
“I am innocent!” exclaimed Colonel Radcliffe. “Colonel Coates is the one at fault. He is a smuggler.”
“I do not know what you are talking about,” said Colonel Coates.
“Smuggling is a matter for another day. Today, our topic is murder,” said Sir Pickering. “A
trial will determine your innocence or your guilt, but the evidence I have found is more than sufficient to arrest you.”
Colonel Coates and the other men attempted to grab Colonel Radcliffe, but he stepped out of their grasp and leapt from the boat into the water. He swam for the wharf.
No one seemed keen to jump after him, into the frigid December water. Instead the officers and Sir Pickering’s men tried to press through the crowd on the dock, but the people were packed as tightly as on a parade day, and just as immovable.
Colonel Radcliffe had reached the boardwalk, his hands were grasping the planks, yet no one was in a position to stop him. It appeared he would escape.
Mary could not allow that. If no one else would stop him, then she would. Because she had stayed at the back of the crowd, no one was in her path.
She ran across the dock, careful to stay in the centre where she would not risk falling into the water. Her heart seemed to pound in her head, and she wished that her physical accomplishments included more than the pianoforte and locking letters. Colonel Radcliffe heaved himself onto the deck as Mary approached, holding the hood of her cloak tight around her face.
She slipped on the damp wood just as she reached Colonel Radcliffe. He stood. Mary stretched out her leg and tripped him.
He fell on the boardwalk.
Mary scrambled towards him. He pulled himself up, and in desperation, Mary lunged for him, grabbing his legs with her arms. In that moment, she could not help but picture her mother and the other women of Meryton, completely scandalized by the way that Mary held onto a man, in public, no less.
He kicked at her. Mary grunted in pain as his foot connected with her chest, but still she held on, held on, held on, for the few necessary moments until the officers could arrive and secure Colonel Radcliffe.
One of the officers attempted to help Mary to her feet. “I’m fine,” she said, pushing him away. She stood, all the while trying to keep her hood tight around her face, and then, as discreetly as she could, she walked away, away from the people, away from the docks. No one stopped her.
The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet Page 24