‘Oh my God!’ Sarai exclaimed, naming herself as a coward for being glad that she had not known the extent of the disaster during the long night. ‘Were there survivors, Mr Nichol?’
He shook a head that was pink where the hairline had deserted. There was a white scar, long and jagged, tracking its way through the pinkness. Some said that a metal plate had been put inside of Nichol’s head to support the skull that had been shattered in the assault, but others claimed this wasn’t true. The possibility of this and the surgery that would have been involved intrigued Sarai, but she wasn’t about to ask the Customs man if it was a fact that he had been trepanned.
‘I’ve heard a rumour that there was one survivor, Miss Adams, but that is so unlikely that I have dismissed it. I think, to my immense sorrow, that it is safe to say that no one from that ship was saved.’
‘What a terrible disaster,’ Sarai sighed.
‘It is my regret that I am the one to tell you of it,’ a grave-faced Nichol told her, going on. ‘In addition, Miss Adams, I ask your forgiveness for not having immediately stated my purpose in calling on you.’
Heart missing a beat, Sarai desperately wanted him to explain why he was there, while at the same time dreaded what he might say. It didn’t help to consider that he was faultlessly civil. Some of the most serious of sins and the most heinous cruelties are committed politely.
‘I would imagine that your reason for being here on such a day is an important one, Mr Nichol,’ Sarai said, surprised by the steadiness of her own voice. She was so pleased that she ventured further. ‘Yet, having regard to your profession, sir, I am at a loss as to how I may help you.’
Giving her one of his lopsided smiles, Nichol said, ‘Ordinarily I would agree that a lady like yourself and lawlessness would never come within a million miles of each other, Miss Adams, but please permit me to explain.’
‘Of course,’ Sarai said, liking the way that his smile, although made into something of a grimace by paralysis, reached his pale grey eyes. So many people were sickenly insincere, but not John Nichol.
‘You may or may not be aware that Revenue officers along the coasts of Dorset, and in parts of Devon, now have observation towers.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ Sarai lied, instantly ashamed of how easily the untruth came to her.
Nichol gave an emphatic nod. ‘They have indeed, and one day we may have one here at Adamslee. Until that time comes I have my orders to improvise.’
Sarai got it then, and a minor panic started churning inside of her. Adamslee House stood on a high vantage point, but how could she allow a Customs man to set up a look-out there? Gray Sawtell would be the first to walk into the trap, and then as others were netted, one of them would be sure to implicate Sarai. Yet the second question, how could she refuse to permit it was equally as impossible to answer. There was no way of avoiding the issue, but Sarai tried to gain a little time by changing the subject.
‘You must live a lonely life, Mr Nichol. Living in lodgings can’t be pleasant, but no doubt a single man is more able to cope with the situation.’
‘I thought my haggard look would preclude such a mistake, Miss Adams,’ he said with rueful good humour. ‘My bachelor days ended more than twenty years ago.’
Cheeks flushing hotly, Sarai murmured, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.’
‘Not at all, not at all.’ He gave her a smile that was as reassuring as the effort of half a face could manage. ‘I have a wife and two daughters at home in Dorchester, Miss Adams. I am able to spend every Saturday and Sunday with them.’
He spoke fondly of his family, and Sarai chided herself. Of late she had been assessing every man she met for one reason only. Wealth and a grand house didn’t provide a guarantee against becoming a whore. The only preventative was self-discipline, something that Sarai found difficult, often impossible, to implement. Having a purpose in life, like getting involved in smuggling, hadn’t helped. Quite the reverse, in fact, because it had led to Gray Sawtell becoming her lover. Whatever pursuit she had followed in the past, at home or abroad, had inevitably included a man at some stage.
‘You must be very proud of your family,’ she said, because it was the right thing to say in this situation.
‘Indeed,’ he said, his eyes showing that he had gone inwards to mentally visit his family.
Then he became his sharp self once more as he looked at Sarai. ‘To return to the point, Miss Adams. I am sure that you are as keen as every other respectable citizen to see this illicit trade stopped. Smuggling is not just a local activity. It eats away at the economic fabric of the whole country. It would be rude of me to presume, but I have a feeling that you would be very willing to co-operate.’
‘Of course,’ she confirmed, noticing that her lie had come even more readily than before. ‘I take it that you wish to use my house, Mr Nichol?’
‘No more than for one month,’ he said, quickly becoming more relaxed and confident now that she had agreed. ‘I promise that I will not inconvenience you in any way.’
A month! Sarai groaned inwardly. She had worked out a system to keep the servants fooled and ignorant about her part in local smuggling and her clandestine meetings with the rugged Sawtell; it wouldn’t be possible to hoodwink this alert, intelligent man.
‘I do believe the wind is slacking,’ Nichol commented, and she had to agree, as the door and windows of Adamslee House were rattling and banging far less.
But the storm, even the immense tragedy of which Nichol had informed her, had lost prominence in Sarai’s mind. With no alternative but to assent to Nichol’s request, she now had to ride out to find Sawtell and warn him of the turn events had taken. If he wasn’t cautioned, then John Nichol’s mission would swiftly be successful.
When Nichol left her, and if the storm was truly abating, she would ride Caesar on a search for her smuggler lover. Needing more information, she enquired of Nichol, ‘When would you wish to start, Mr Nichol?’
Needing time, she tried to will him by thought transfer – next week, next month, next year, or, better still, never!
His answer disappointed Sarai, coming as a shock that temporarily put much of her nervous system out of action.
‘Ideally, Miss Adams, I would very much like to be established here today.’
In a village preoccupied with clearing debris and repairing damaged houses, the yellow-haired man was a sensation that took people away from their vital work. On all different kinds of pretext they came to Arabella’s door hoping to get a glimpse of him. Being young and of superb physique, he had quickly recovered. A benefit for Arabella in having the rescued man in the house, was that her mother had left her bed for the first time in many weeks. Though wan and weary, Lucy Willard sat with them, enjoying being part of a small, elite circle that had the miracle of the stormy night at its centre. The rescued man had thanked them, and had given his name as Joby Lancer, while offering no further details about himself. Ruth had stayed to cook a meal for them all, and Lionel was there. To Arabella’s amazement, the usually taciturn Gray Sawtell had stayed to eat with them, astonishingly often saying a few words. Sitting beside him was Willie Brickell, the tousled haired young boy who was employed by Sawtell but was more than a worker on the ketch. Arabella was aware that Sawtell had all but adopted Willie as a son, making sure that the boy, who lived up at the Hamoon workhouse with a mother crippled by arthritis, never went without.
All of them were helped by the relieved and relaxed atmosphere that comes in the wake of a time of great danger. They mourned the huge loss of life just as all Adamslee did, but the harshness of their existence, and previous shipwrecks had inured them to some extent. The village’s physician Reverend Lionel Worther had applied for permission to hold a mass burial in a communal grave close to the shore but out of the reach of the highest of tides.
‘If you’s thinking o’ biding round ’ere,’ Willie was telling Joby Lancer, ‘you won’t find no work. Lionel there,’ – he indicated Lionel Heelan wit
h a jerk of his head – ‘is one of the best workers ’ereabouts, but he cain’t get no regular job.’
Awaiting Lancer’s response, Arabella looked to where he sat on the dirt floor, his knees pulled up and his arms wrapped round them. His hair was swept back now, remarkable by its startling colour and extraordinary length. The young man’s face was thoughtful, as was to be expected, Arabella reasoned, for he must be wondering what 412, for that was the total number of dead from the Paloma, to one chance had been in his favour, and why. Outwardly he had casually dismissed his good fortune, saying that he would have drowned had not Arabella and the others reached him in time. This was no answer. None of the others had been washed in alive.
‘I will be moving on, Willie,’ he said at last, giving the boy a smile.
‘Not until you are fit to travel,’ Arabella said quickly, then felt herself blushing as the others looked at her, surprised by her vehemence.
‘Going home, Joby?’
It was Arabella’s mother who had asked the question. This was the first time for ages that the sick woman had showed interest in anything or anyone. It prompted Arabella to go over to where her mother sat and put a loving arm round her thin shoulders.
‘Something like that, Mrs Willard,’ Joby Lancer said softly. Arabella could sense that it wasn’t a real answer, and guessed that he had avoided telling her mother a lie.
‘Where’s your home?’ Willie asked with juvenile brashness.
‘Far away, son,’ Lancer gave one of his answers that said nothing.
Getting the impression that Joby Lancer was having difficulty in not continually looking at her, Arabella was thrilled. There was something about the stranger that she found fascinating, perhaps even exciting if she was prepared to admit it. But this made her feel disloyal to Lionel. On the evening of last Christmas Day, he had told Arabella and her mother that he was determined to earn enough money to break through the poverty barrier that had kept generations of Adamslee folk oppressed through long years. He had ended up by stammeringly asking Arabella’s mother if, when the time was right, he could marry Arabella.
Lucy Willard, who was very fond of Lionel, readily gave consent. Where any other male was concerned, Arabella’s mother was fearful for her to the point of distraction. But she had total faith in Lionel. Although she had given her consent, both the mother and daughter knew that they were dealing with a time a long way off, or most probably one that would never come. Determination wasn’t enough to let a poor man become wealthy. They both were aware that Lionel’s pride wouldn’t allow him to ask her to be his wife if he had not achieved his ambition.
In a way, though she appreciated what a good man Lionel was, Arabella often wondered if she really did love him. Who could define what love was? How should she feel? Many times she had been tempted to broach the subject to her mother but realized it would be pointless to discuss her problem with someone not fully in tune with life.
Arabella had no doubts that her uncertainty over Lionel stemmed from a recurring dream that had been with her over the years. It was a waking dream, a daydream that happened when she was fully conscious but lulled into a restful state of tranquillity while sitting all alone in her favourite place on the hill behind the house.
From there, physically close to the village but mentally distant, she would experience what she would only presume to be a peep into a misty future. The same young man was always there. Unable to see him anything like clearly, she knew that he was an exciting stranger who had come to take her away from Adamslee. This had to be the romantic self-delusion of a village girl. But she now found that her romantic streak was seductively offering to turn the good-looking Joby Lancer into the stranger in her daydream. She pushed these alluring thoughts from her head, dread filling her as she heard Lionel directly address Gray Sawtell, which was a dangerous exercise few if any in Adamslee were brave enough to undertake.
‘I’m seeking regular work,’ Lionel was saying in a way that made it plain he was asking for a job. ‘The occasional work don’t come along like it did.’
There was tension in the atmosphere, with only Joby Lancer being unaffected because he didn’t know what was going on. Gray Sawtell gave little of himself. The wise didn’t venture into the private space with which he surrounded himself.
But Arabella was surprised and relieved when he replied affably, actually complimenting Lionel, by referring to his part in the rescue. ‘You did well last night, friend, and I was pleased to be at your side. But the fishing doesn’t do more than just about keep Willie and me.’
Hearing Lionel’s intake of breath had Arabella silently plead with him to leave it at that, to say no more. But Lionel had gained self-confidence during the dramatic night on the beach, and Sawtell’s praise had boosted this. Arabella’s feelings for Lionel made her fear a rebuff from Sawtell that would wound her sensitive friend deeply.
‘I wasn’t meaning with the fishing,’ Lionel told Sawtell. Everything went silent. Ruth, who had been cleaning a saucepan, stopped partway through the chore, stood as still as a statue, worrying over her brother. Fiddling with the frayed edges of the blanket she had round her, Arabella’s mother kept her white face down, but Arabella could sense her anxiety. Everyone in the village, although in no doubt that Sawtell led the local gang of smugglers, had the good sense not to even hint at it. Now Lionel, by implication, had made it clear in front of others that he knew Sawtell was involved with contraband.
Still leaning relaxed with his back against a wall, Sawtell said nothing. But his level stare was on Lionel, and Arabella saw her friend wilt under it, his resolve slipping as the full force of Gray Sawtell’s tough personality showed through.
Ever so slowly, Sawtell used the muscles of his back to push himself away from the wall. When he spoke it was in a quiet, reasonable tone that no one there had expected. ‘I’m leaving now. Perhaps you’ll walk with me, friend.’
As surprised as anyone there, it took Lionel a few moments to understand the invitation. Sawtell had reached the door by the time Lionel had pulled himself together and caught up with him.
At the door he turned to give Arabella a quick smile. She smiled back, weakly, far from certain that what she was witnessing was a good thing, despite the enthusiasm Lionel exhibited as he went out of the door with the smuggler.
Three
‘STAY STILL AND stay quiet!’
Gray Sawtell’s hissed warning reached Lionel at the same time as the fisherman’s restraining hand gripped his shoulder. The hand moved him back against the high wall by the quay. Even after several weeks Lionel still found there was a delay in finding his sea legs when they put out in the ketch. He had the same problem getting the use of his land legs when they came ashore, and he was glad of the support afforded by the wall. He could hear Willie Brickell breathing close beside him, but couldn’t see the lad in the shadows.
When the three of them had fished a long way out earlier it had been a black, moonless night. A fast learner, he no longer had to puzzle over what Sawtell was doing when he peered over the bow of the ketch searching for the phosphorescence, the light created by shoaling fish. Once hesitant and awkward compared to Sawtell and Willie as they had played out the net, Lionel could now work with them as one of a team. When Sawtell used admirable skill to bring the boat round in a full circle to fill the net, Willie and he had moved with practised ease to ensure that the net was pulled tightly to make a bag or purse with the fish securely inside. Even after having performed the task many times since joining Sawtell, Lionel still got a pleasant feeling of achievement when the fish were scooped up to cascade into the boat like a glistening silver cataract.
There remained a sense of the unusual in it all for Lionel, which he thought, or rather fervently hoped, would fade in time. They had stopped fishing when a young moon had crept nervously into the sky. Lionel had felt easier when the weak moonlight thinned the density of the night and stitched a million sparkling sequins onto the surface of the gently moving water.
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He had been paid little for his fishing work, which was only a cover for the activities that had in a short time rewarded his pocket handsomely. Even more remote and detached at sea than he was on land, Sawtell, with time, tides, and the points of the compass somehow innately a part of him, would steer them unerringly to ships that would suddenly loom up out of the night as hulking silhouettes. With hardly a word spoken, goods would then be transferred. Following that the contraband would be brought ashore and stored in a cave.
That cave was packed now. Lionel had not been informed, but he gathered that this was because John Nichol had set up some kind of observation post somewhere on high. Obviously there was another place of storage to where the illicit goods would have been moved from the cave had it not been for the Customs man, but Lionel had not been told where this secret place was.
Life had taken a decided turn for the better since he had summoned the nerve necessary to ask Sawtell for work. Although the taciturn fisherman wasn’t one to show emotion, he had definitely taken to Lionel. Sawtell was even interested in his relationship with Arabella, which was at last progressing because he was earning good money. It seemed to Lionel that the reclusive Sawtell, denied romantic liaisons by his way of life, was enjoying the experience vicariously. It pleased Lionel that Arabella was gradually – and the process was speeding up – losing her fear of Sawtell and the reserve she had shown towards the fisherman.
In keeping with the change in their financial fortune, the health of Arabella’s mother had continued to improve since the night of the great storm.
As they waited now, backs against the wall, Lionel was relieved that they had nothing to hide that night. There had been no rendezvous, no smuggling, but he accepted that, with John Nichol constantly on watch, Sawtell could not take any chances whatsoever. But impatience was growing inside of Lionel. Of late this had been an increasing feeling; wanting to get on with things, to build his finances further. It pleased him to remember that Joby Lancer, now fully recovered, was moving on in the morning. He hadn’t said where he was heading; neither did they know anything more about him now than when he had arrived. Though he had grown to like the stranger, and although he trusted Arabella completely, Lionel feared that she and Lancer were attracted to each other. He had no evidence to support this, it being more of a hunch than a belief.
The Toll of the Sea Page 4