Red Sky at Night, Lovers' Delight

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  “Another?”

  “Another Kit Warrender, believe it or not. Caught smuggling in the park last night and escaped from my study this morning.”

  “Kit Warrender? Escaped? But he’s here!”

  “I said, another. Like as two peas, though. Same nose, same name. Well …” He looked up at a portrait, of an eighteenth-century Warrender over the chimneypiece. “There’s the nose. What was his name?”

  Warren laughed. “Christopher. Odd to find it gracing the bastards surely?”

  “Maybe their mothers had hopes.”

  “So you mean—” George Warren had been working it out—“they may have been working together? The two of them? That’s why—I did think he had changed the other day.”

  “Exactly.” And that, Hawth thought, was quite as far as it was safe to go. “Let us see what your Kit Warrender has to say for himself.”

  “Not mine,” said George Warren. “I prefer the other—the younger one.”

  They found Kit Warrender in the dining room making formidable inroads on a side of beef. “Good morning.” He raised his glass to them. “Forgive me if I don’t rise to greet you. I am making amends for a deuced uncomfortable night. Damned hard beds in the East Grinstead gaol. Damned good claret. Cousin George. Glad you’ve not drunk it up yet.”

  “You know it?”

  “Well, of course. Member of the family, what? Talking of family—” he turned sudden and sharp to Hawth— “what’s this about my Cousin Kate? Missing? What happened?”

  “She was kidnapped.” Hawth paused, waiting for a reaction.

  “Kidnapped! My … Kate? And you do nothing?” He was on his feet now, finishing his wine as he rose.

  “All’s well,” said Hawth. “She rescued herself, like the capable young lady she is. No need to interrupt your luncheon on her account.”

  “Thanks! You might have told me at once.” The young man carved himself another huge slice of beef and sat down again. “You keep a good house, Cousin George.”

  “Thank you.” Warren’s tone was dry as he poured wine for Hawth and himself. “You wished for an urgent meeting,” he said.

  “Did—and do. I’ve news of the landing, gentlemen.”

  “The French?” said Hawth.

  “Just so. The French. All ready and waiting for the word, while Boney makes great faces at the Czar.”

  “And the word?”

  “Started on its way last night. That’s all I know. But enough, wouldn’t you think?”

  “How do you know?” asked Hawth.

  “Had it from a girl. Clever child. Knows when and how to listen at a keyhole.”

  A girl. Hawth found he was clenching his teeth. Kate Warrender? Or his daughter Susan? Keyholes! But there was nothing to be learned at the hall. Or was there? He turned to Warren. “Forgive me, George, but I think perhaps I should have a word with Mr. Warrender alone.”

  “Certainly. If there’s a lady in question.” Warren rose to his feet. “Should I be taking any action in the meanwhile?”

  “Yes. Warnings to the barracks—Glinde, Brighton, Lewes, Hastings—to be passed on. And—” he had pulled out his pocket book and was writing fast—“this to the Home Secretary in London. If the landing’s so soon, they must be ready for trouble there, too. I doubt they’ll dare spare us more troops. Oh, and send a messenger to the Tidemills, George? Someone inconspicuous to report what’s doing? I’m afraid of trouble anyway, after Jewkes’ arrest last night.”

  “Jewkes arrested?” Alone with Hawth, Warrender filled his glass and gave him challenging glance for glance. “You appear to have had an eventful time of it down here, while I was getting myself captured in a good cause on the way to East Grinstead.”

  “Yes. Jewkes of the shop was caught red-handed with a smuggling party in the dark. A decoy for the arms movement, I suspect. Some inferior tea and brandy. And an attempt on Miss Warrender’s life.”

  “What?”

  “She was guiding them. Dressed like you. Because of a note from you. She thinks it a forgery.”

  “She’s right. You’ve seen it?”

  “Yes. But that’s not all. I have to speak to you, Warrender, about my daughter.”

  “The devil you have!”

  “I ought to thrash you. You’re not worth calling out. Maybe I will when this is all over. In the meantime, you will not go near either Miss Warrender or Miss Chyngford.”

  “Proper squire of dames you think me, don’t you? Very well, I will concentrate, for the time being, on my inamorata in East Grinstead. Ha!” He had seen Hawth’s quick breath of relief. “Afraid it was one of them, were you? Don’t have much confidence in females, do you? Thought of Mrs. Warrender? She might have as good an ear for a keyhole as the next one. No flies on my Cousin Warrender. My lord!” He was on his feet, alerted by Hawth’s expression of naked rage. “All a jest, I assure you. Merely a jest.”

  “In the worst of taste,” growled Hawth. “But no time for that now. If you wish to qualify for the reward you’re promised, you will do as I bid you. Stay away from the hall and the Dower House. And one word to anyone about Miss Warrender’s escapades, and you might as well leave the district at once.”

  “Oh, I think I’ll stay,” said Kit Warrender.

  “You’ll have to stay hidden anyway. There’s a warrant out for your arrest, remember. Warren believes there are two of you bastards, but I doubt the rest of the district would take that.”

  “Damnation,” said young Warrender. “You mean to say I’ve got to go into hiding just when things are coming to a head? Plague take that Kate. Trust her to believe a lying message and get us all in this scrape.”

  “You will refer to the lady as Miss Warrender.” It got him a roar of laughter and a curious look of, surely, satisfaction. “Of course I will,” said Kit Warrender, “for the time being.” He rose to his feet. “I suppose I shall have to escape again. Very incompentent lot it makes you seem, don’t it? Thank Mr. Warren for me, would you.” He moved over to the big window and threw it open.

  “Oh, no you don’t.” With one stride, Hawth had him by the arm. “I’ve no time for you now, nor for the thrashing I’d like to give you. But don’t delude yourself I’m letting you go. You are going to stay here, under house arrest, until the crisis is past and I can decide what to do with you.”

  Once again the young man surprised him with a roar of laughter. “House arrest here at the Warren? Oh, that’s rich! I like that! Specially now poor Cousin George has made the house habitable. With a chef like his, who cares about house arrest? Besides, you may be right, I’m not sure how safe my life would be in these parts just now. House arrest will be very pleasant, and so you may tell my Cousin George.”

  “You mean you’ll not try to escape?”

  “Good lord, no. I know when I’m well off. You may take care of the crisis, my lord, while I lie up snug here. Pray give my kind regards to Miss Chyngford and Miss Warrender.” He burst into another fit of laughter as Hawth suppressed an oath and left him.

  Joining Warren in his office: “I’d like to take a horsewhip to that young man,” Hawth said.

  “I know just how you feel. What are you going to do with him?”

  Hawth gave a harsh bark of laughter. “Put him under house arrest here. I’m sorry, George.”

  “He’ll stay?”

  “He’s delighted to. Compliments to your chef. Have the messages gone off?”

  “Yes, indeed. But. Hawth, what are we going to do? If the French land here in Glinde Bay, we’re lost, and by what that young man said they may do so any night. And the troops up at Glinde barracks gravely under strength since that last detachment was sent north.”

  “I know,” said Hawth. “They can do little more than mount a token resistance. So the French must not land.”

  “And how do you propose to prevent them?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that ever since we first heard of the threat, and I think I have the answer. I am going to invoke another of our qua
int local customs, George. Did you know that as well as smuggling the good people of Glinde also have a penchant for wrecking?”

  “Wrecking?”

  “Yes. If we can find out when the French are coming, I think I can guarantee that they wreck themselves on Chyngford Point. Those that manage to get past the Channel Squadron, which we must hope has been alerted by now. They’ll be steering by the light on Glinde Head, you see. They won’t be the first, I can tell you.”

  “Good God. What happens?”

  “The wreckers light a bonfire on Chyngford Point and put out the light on Glinde Head. And, as a result, instead of beaching nice and snug in the bay, a ship steering by the light will hit the long cliff at Chyngford, and break up for sure. The wreckage washes into Glinde Bay with the tide, and the wreckers hardly have to wet their feet.”

  “Jehosaphat” said George Warren. “But how will we know when to light the bonfire?”

  “I’ve been working that out. If the word started on its way last night as young Warrender says, it can’t reach France till tomorrow. They’ll be as ready as possible, but there must be some delay. We’ll keep watch from the night after.”

  “Best build the bonfire today.”

  Hawth laughed. “That’s the wreckers’ business, and you can rely on them to know it. I think they do it at the last moment, our climate being what it is.”

  “You mean you will leave it to them?”

  “Oh, I think I must.” He rose to his feet. “Enjoy your prisoner, George. I must go and see a friend in Glinde.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Up on Chyngford Point the evening air struck cold. Mist in the valley was creeping slowly up the cliff Soon it would be quite dark. But the two riders who approached from the direction of Glinde seemed to find their way without difficulty. Only, reaching the top of the cliff, they stopped, surprised, looking at the huge bonfire ready built there.

  “Right handy,” said one.

  “Yes, but who?”

  “Best find out. You that way, I’ll go this “

  They found the shepherd crouched in his hut in the lee of the cliff top and began systematically to bully an explanation out of him. Yes, he looked after the beacon. No, he would tell them no more. “I’m more sceeart of them than I be of you, see.”

  “We’ll see about that. Wreckers, of course.”

  “Surely,” said the shepherd. “Who else?” He made as if to rise from the ground where they had thrown him.

  “Not yet, friend. Their names?”

  “No!”

  “Yes.” A blow underlined the word.

  “No!” Another blow felled him to the ground again, where he lay very still.

  “He’s not moving! You hit too hard.”

  “I never.” But the old shepherd was unconscious.

  “What will we do?”

  “Leave him and say now! Nor will he, I wager.”

  Hearing that the beacon was built and ready, Hawth sighed with relief and went to call on George Warren. It was good to get away from the hall, everything was at sixes and sevens. Miss Warrender, it seemed, was suffering from nervous prostration after her “kidnapping,” and her mother stayed at home to nurse her. Miss Lintott was furious, quarrelled with the chef and then grumbled at the bad dinners that resulted. Worst of all, Susan went about the house like a hunted animal, cowering away when her father tried to speak to her. She had heard, of course, of Kit Warrender’s confinement at Warren House. She had not, Hawth was sure, heard anything from him directly, and was suffering accordingly. And serve her right, he thought, but there would be time for all of that when the danger of invasion was past.

  Mounting his horse, he was tempted to go by the Dower House and make sure that Mrs. Warrender was not wearing herself out nursing that tiresome daughter of hers. But it might mean meeting Miss Kate, and he did not much want to do that until he had decided what to do about her, and that, like everything else personal, must wait.

  “Two days, since the message went,” said George Warren. “Do you think the French will come tonight?”

  “It’s possible. Boney’s a hard master. They’ll have been ready.”

  “Still no word from London?”

  “An acknowledgement. As we feared, no troops for the moment. One consignment of arms got past the trap set for it. They are on full alert up there. Still don’t know what to expect. Frankly—” with a wry smile—“I’m not sure the Home Office quite believe in the French invasion. God knows, young Warrender begins to seem an unreliable enough source. And they’ve plenty on their hands up there, with the whole royal family to be protected. The chance of a new Gordon riot, or worse.”

  “Just as well you’ve made your own arrangements.”

  “I think so. How’s your guest by the way?”

  “Enjoying himself, I think. There’s something very disconcerting about that young man. I feel, all the time, that he is laughing at me. And moreover there’s something wrong with Chilver.”

  “With Chilver? What in the world do you mean?”

  “I wish I knew. He can’t be involved in any of this.”

  “Of course not. I thought he looked far from well. He’s an old man.”

  “He seems one, all of a sudden. Oh well … He shrugged it off. “Do we watch tonight?”

  “The wreckers do.”

  “You trust them?”

  “In this case? Absolutely.”

  George Warren sighed. “It’s a mad country, yours. If I live here the rest of my life, I won’t understand it.”

  “I hope you will.”

  “Live here? Or understand?”

  Hawth laughed. “Both, I suppose. As for watching, I’d be glad if you’d come and spend these nights at the hall. There’s a turret with windows all round. One can see both Glinde Head and Chyngford Point. Dine with me and we’ll share the night. I’ve got young Winterton on guard at the Dower House, turn about with the man there, just in case someone should decide to try another attack on Miss Warrender.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  It was a rough night, with a strong east wind bringing cold rain across, the Channel to throw it against the upstairs windows of the hall. “I doubt they’d chance it in this,” said George Warren as he and Hawth settled down in the turret room that had been part of the first Lord Hawth’s Gothic folly.

  “But if they do,” said Hawth, “they’ve a damn good chance of eluding the Channel Squadron, however much they may be on the lookout It must be a foul night at sea.”

  “How will the wreckers know if they are coming?”

  “Oh, they have their methods, into which I do not choose to pry. Wrecking and smuggling and fishing all go together on this coast”

  Warren took an anxious turn across the room to peer once more out into the blackness and listen to rain beating on the leaded panes. “Then will Jewkes and his friends not know about the wreckers’ plans?”

  “I took care of that. There’s been bad blood between Glinde and Tidemills for a long time as you must know. My connection is with Glinde. Mind you, if there should be a wreck here in the bay I’m afraid they may be fighting over the spoils.”

  “Glinde against Tidemills? Charming lot of local peasantry you have, but at least it may distract their minds from thoughts of revolution. And from Miss Warrender. Has there been a report from the Dower House?”

  “All quiet,” said Hawth. He yawned and shrugged and filled their glasses. “I’ll toss you for first watch, George. Duke or darling?”

  Down at Tidemills, watch was being kept, too, from a top attic window of the mill itself, the only place in the village to command a view of Chyngford Point. Jewkes the publican was sharing the watch with his son Pete, grumbling because none of his fellow conspirators had been prepared to turn out. “It may not be likely it’ll happen tonight, and the mail coaches not ran,” he told his son, “but it’s possible, ain’t it? Arms should be in London now. When the General decides to act, he’s quick. And the quicker the better, a
sk me, so we can get your uncle out of Glinde gaol before they move him.” He made a pillow of his coat and stretched out on the floor by the brazier they had brought with them. “Damn this weather.” He pulled his huge turnip watch out of his pocket and handed it over. “Wake me at quarter to five, and if you fall asleep Peter Jewkes, I’ll kill you.”

  After midnight the weather eased, and George Warren, who had won the toss and chosen the first watch, found it possible for the first time to see the light on Glinde Head, and even, from time to time, the flash of lights from the barracks below it, where presumably watch was also being kept. Waking Hawth at last for his turn, he remarked on this, and asked how the wreckers would contrive to put out the light with the barracks so near.

  “You can’t see the light from the barracks,” said Hawth. “It’s one of our more comic bits of military planning. There was to have been a martello tower up by the light, but what with one thing and another, it never got built. I’m not sure Trinity House wanted it.”

  “Trinity House?”

  “They run the lighthouses—it’s a Trinity House man up there now, feeding sperm oil to Rumford’s multiple wick burner.” He stopped short. “George, can you see the light?”

  “I could,” George Warren, who had been looking towards Chyngford Point, hurried across the room to join him. “No, it’s gone. Could it have just gone out?”

  “Unlikely.” With one accord they crossed the room to look out the other way. “It stands to reason the man on the point would take his time from the one on the head. You can relight a lamp that goes out by accident. It’s hard work quenching a beacon. So we give it a minute or two.” He moved back across the room. “No sight of a light.” he reported.

  “Nor here. The wind’s getting up again. I wouldn’t want to try and light a candle up on Chyngford Point, still less a bonfire.”