Death at Rottingdean

by Robin Paige

  “It wasn’t,” Charles said. “They connived in it.”

  “Ah.” Kate picked up her hat and turned it thoughtfully, straightening the silk roses around the brim. “Of course. They must have concealed the contraband until it could be freighted to the cities.”

  “And profited thereby,” Charles said. “But now that the excise laws have been changed, there is little profit, less smuggling, and nothing to connive at.”

  “But it would make a marvelous novel,” Kate said.

  “So it would,” Charles replied encouragingly. “The very thing for you to work on while we are here.” He hoped that Kate could go back to her writing, for she was always happiest when she was engaged with one of her stories. He took out his watch and glanced at it. “If we are going to arrive at The Elms when we promised, we had best be going. Shall I have Lawrence fetch the motorcar? I don’t want you to exert yourself if you’re tired.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Kate said. “It’s only a short way, and quite a lovely night.” She began pinning her hat to her hair. “But if there is no smuggling,” she said around the hatpins in her mouth, “who did kill the coast guard? And why?”

  7

  As usual one goes along the line of least resistance and because the owner offered to sell us his sticks of furniture too, thereby saving us the bother of immediately hunting for new things, we have taken for three years this ex-smuggling stronghold in Rottingdean. It’s small, low and old and in time we hope to make it comfy. At present its interior is what you might call neolithic.

  —RUDYARD KIPLING TO THOMAS HARDY November 30, 1897

  In due time I found my ghost.

  -RUDYARD KIPLING “My Own True Ghost Story”

  Stucco-fronted and red-tiled, The Elms stood in a sort of little island under several large ilex trees and behind six-foot flint walls which, Kipling would say many years later, “we then thought were high enough.” On this evening, Kipling answered his own door, dressed in tweeds with leather elbow patches and knee-high boots, holding a nightgowned little girl in his arms.

  “Welcome to our abode,” he said warmly. “You’ll find us very common here, with no ceremony.” He bounced the little girl, who hid her face shyly on his shoulder. “This is Elsie, and where has Josephine gotten to? Josephine, Josephine! Come down and meet our visitors!”

  A small girl flew down the narrow staircase and hid herself shyly behind her father’s boots, then obeyed his command to step out and shake hands with Lord and Lady Sheridan. There was an easy familiarity between father and daughter, as if the two of them spent a great deal of time in one another’s company.

  “You’ll find that we have a wonderfully rustic and innocent time of it in Rottingdean.” Kipling took his daughter’s hand. “Jam-smeared picnics on the downs, chasing ducks into the pond, finding birds’ eggs—quite the thing, eh, Josie?” And upon her eager assent, he added, to Kate, “Perhaps you’d go riding with us some afternoon, Kate, when you’ve nothing better to do. A friend gave the wife and me a tandem some months ago, but Carrie isn’t well enough to ride yet.”

  “There’s a seat on the back for me,” Josephine said. She looked pleadingly up at Kate, who saw that the little girl had her father’s firmly cleft chin. “Please, say you’ll go. My feet don’t reach the pedals, or I’d do it.”

  “For sheer pace and excitement, a tandem beats a bicycle all to pieces,” Kipling said enticingly. He grinned at Charles. “And I’d be glad to lend it to the two of you, so you can ride along the cliff. Now that’s excitement for you.”

  “I’d love to go riding with you, Josephine,” Kate said. She glanced at Kipling with his two daughters, and then at her husband, wondering what sharp envy Charles must be feeling. He would have been a wonderful father, she thought with a swift pang, and as swiftly turned her head to hide the painful thought that must be written on her face. But not swiftly enough, for she knew that Charles had glimpsed it.

  Kipling led them into a low-ceilinged cave of a parlor, where his wife, Carrie, a sharp-jawed, brown-haired lady of about Kate’s age, sat on a brown chair, under a blue-shaded gas lamp with leprous-looking white blotches all over it. In her arms was the Kiplings’ new baby, John, swathed in a knitted wrap. On a nearby horsehair sofa sat another, older woman, quite tiny but erect and straight-shouldered, with an elvish face that was striking in its dynamic intelligence. As she stood, Kate saw that she was wearing a plum-colored dress with long, full skirts, serviceable but not particularly smart, which had outlasted several changes of fashion. The gaslight shone on her silver-gray hair, knotted loosely under a swath of soft ocher lace that had been pinned with a brooch. At her waist hung a large watch set with chrysolites.

  Kipling introduced them all. While Charles joined their host in front of the small, smoky fire, Kate admired the baby, congratulated the mother, and then turned to the older woman with genuine pleasure.

  “Lady Burne-Jones,” she said, “I’m so pleased to meet you at last. I am a great admirer of your husband’s painting, of course. And the Countess of Warwick has often spoken of your fine work with the London children.” Kate knew that Georgiana Jones had strong socialist leanings and was an outspoken anti-Imperialist and advocate of liberal causes, including the thorny question of Home Rule for Ireland. Remembering Kipling’s fierce defense of the Empire, Kate wondered how the aunt and the nephew managed to get along. But perhaps political disagreements were left at the door when the family gathered, and certainly there was no evidence of tension between them.

  The woman fixed large blue eyes on Kate, smiling humorously. “I’m called Aunt Georgie in this house, my lady. To avoid confusing the children, you must adopt our common practice.” She gestured to the sofa and Kate sat down. “And I understand that you are one of my favorite writers, in disguise. Beryl Bardwell, indeed!” She laughed lightly. “I can hardly believe my good fortune in having you here with us in little Rottingdean, where our lives are so unlike the excitement of your novels. Such tales you tell! Quite extraordinary!”

  “Thank you,” Kate said. She put her hand on Aunt Georgie. “But you and Caroline must call me Kate.”

  Aunt Georgie nodded. “I hope you are at work on another story,” she went on, with an eagerness that was clearly unfeigned. “The last one I read—some months ago, I think—was about a woman who went up in a balloon. A remarkable feat. It quite left me breathless.” She smiled. “Which of course it was meant to do.”

  “It was inspired by a real event,” Charles put in. “Kate takes her ideas from what goes on around her.” His mouth turned down. “I fear, though, that she has had precious little time and energy to write in the months we’ve been in London.”

  Kate blushed, feeling that they should not even be talking about her work in the presence of a writer as deservedly famous as Kipling. But he was nodding. “I understand exactly, oh, I do. London offers far too many amusements, too many delightful corruptions. One is tempted in all directions and finds oneself quite too distracted, and far too excited, to write.”

  Aunt Georgie smiled. “Well, I fear you shan’t find any excitement at Rottingdean to inspire or distract you, Kate. In fact, most of us have taken refuge here from the very temptations Ruddy describes. Compared to corrupt London, Rottingdean is wonderfully incorruptible.”

  “Oh, but she has already been distracted, Aunt,” Kipling said, rising on the toes of his shiny black boots. “She was above the beach when the body of the dead man was towed in this morning and that blockhead Woodhouse refused our help with the investigation.”

  “That man,” Aunt Georgie said disapprovingly, “I have spoken several times to the Parish Council about his unacceptable behavior.” She turned to Kate. “I hope you weren’t too distressed by the drowning, my dear.”

  “I fear, Aunt,” Caroline said primly, “that this is not a fit subject for the children.” She rang a brass bell and a white-aproned nurse appeared and whisked the two little girls away, in spite of their pleas to be allowed to stay.

/>   “Young John is devilish clever, but I doubt he has yet mastered the language,” Kipling said, settling himself in a green leather chair and motioning Charles to a matching chair on the other side of the fire. “We may go on without fear of offending his tender ears.”

  “I understand that it was the coast guard from Black Rock who drowned,” Aunt Georgie remarked. “I met Mrs. Radford on the Brighton omnibus just last week. She is a sweet person, but quite helpless, I thought. And now she will be all alone with their two small children. But the parish has remedies to offer. I will visit her very soon and see what should be done.”

  “Is there any word as to the cause of death?” Charles asked. “Has it been put about that he died by drowning?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Kipling replied, “it has.” He pulled his expressive black brows together. “But I also overheard our cook telling the serving maid that the poor fellow had the misfortune of running himself through with his own sword before he jumped off the cliff and into the sea.”

  Kate and Caroline gasped. “How dreadful!” Caroline exclaimed.

  Aunt Georgie frowned. “But I thought the coast guards carried only wooden truncheons. I had no idea they were armed with swords!”

  “A short sword is hidden inside the truncheon,” Kipling explained. “It can be pulled out and wielded like a long knife. A quite effective weapon, I assure you.”

  Charles was staring at Kipling, and gave voice to the question that was loud in Kate’s mind. “Ran himself through?” he asked. “On what evidence—”

  Kipling held up his hand. “Don’t look to me for explanations, Sheridan. I am merely reporting what the cook said to the serving maid while I lurked unseen in the hallway, awaiting an announcement as to dinner. I was given to understand, however, that it is the general report that is being circulated in the village, for the serving maid reported that her brother brought the same news home from the taproom at The Plough.”

  “But the boy’s report absolutely contradicts the idea of suicide,” Kate objected. “Surely an investigation will reveal—”

  “The boy’s report?” Aunt Georgie asked.

  “Our young friend Patrick was hanging about on the cliff night before last,” Kipling replied. “He saw a man in oilskins loading Radford’s body into a skiff.”

  Aunt Georgie pulled in her breath. “Poor Paddy!” she exclaimed. “What a horrible thing for him to witness. He must have been terribly frightened!”

  “I rather think, Aunt,” Kipling said dryly, “that our sympathies should lie with the dead man. Patrick seems not to have been frightened at all.”

  Kate tried again. “It seems to me that Patrick’s report shows that the coast guard could not have killed himself.”

  “Oh, I don’t agree,” Caroline murmured, stroking the baby’s head with her finger. “Someone might have found the poor fellow lying dead at the foot of the cliff and decided to bury him at sea.”

  “I’m afraid I’m missing something,” Charles said, frowning. “Why should anyone do something of that sort?”

  “Out of sympathy with the dead man’s family,” Caroline replied. “Or perhaps to avoid the scandal of a suicide in the village.”

  There was a moment’s silence, and then Aunt Georgie said, “I’m afraid I agree with Carrie. In this village, someone might have done just that—but not out of sympathy, if you ask me. And Patrick will do well not to give tongue to a contrary report, if he knows what is good for him.”

  “If he knows what is good for him?” Charles asked, in a tone of mild curiosity.

  Aunt Georgie tilted her head at him. “Haven’t you heard of the Rottingdean smugglers?”

  “Oh, Aunt,” Caroline sighed, with the dismissive air of someone who has listened to the story more often than she cared to. “That business took place long ago, in the time of King George. It may be very romantic and all that, but it’s all over now.”

  “That is commonly said, Carrie, my dear,” Aunt Georgie replied. “But Rottingdean keeps its own secrets, and even those of us who have maintained houses in this village for fifteen years are not privy to its inner workings. And even though I serve on the Parish Council and do my utmost to preserve the peace and tranquillity of the village, I don’t pretend to understand all the little mischiefs that go on in its pubs and its streets. Or under the streets, for that matter,” she added suggestively.

  Kate leaned forward, intrigued. “Under the streets?”

  The baby began to fuss, and Carrie held him against her shoulder. “Aunt is referring to the notorious Rottingdean tunnels that were dug by smugglers well over a hundred years ago,” she said in a practical tone. “They’ve all been blocked up for fear of subsidence, or children being trapped. The area is entirely safe.”

  “That is the tale that is told to outsiders,” Aunt Georgie said. “The truth may be exactly the opposite.”

  “Well, the tunnel that leads out of our cellar is certainly blocked,” Caroline retorted. “The agent who let the house assured us so, and told us to ignore any stories to the contrary.” Her voice was edgy, and Kate thought that if there was any tension in the family, it lay between Kipling’s wife and his aunt—some jealousy, perhaps. It struck her that Mrs. Kipling might view her husband’s aunt as a competitor for his affections and was looking for opportunities to discredit her. But the aunt did not seem inclined to surrender.

  “For heaven’s sake, Carrie,” Aunt Georgie said, “house agents will tell you anything you like to hear. The Elms was built by a man who made his living in the illegal export of wool, and it is common knowledge that his cellar was a smugglers’ depot. It lay at the hub of several tunnels that led to other houses. One may indeed be blocked, but who can say as to the others. And aren’t you the very one who complained of noises in the cellar a night or two ago?”

  Caroline responded to the challenge with a light laugh. “You’re not suggesting that there are still smugglers in this village?”

  “I am only suggesting that some intrigue or another is afoot,” Aunt Georgie replied, lifting her chin. “You cannot have noticed it, my dear, for you have not lived here a sufficient time, but an unusual amount of money has been coming into this village lately. The chemist has a new horse to pull his old gig, and the money to stable it. And Mrs. Howard, who has been poor as a church mouse, somehow found the means to open a dressmaker’s shop on the High Street and offer fabrics and laces as fine as any in Oxford Street. Perhaps you can suggest where the money might have come from.”

  Caroline looked cross and did not answer. The fire hissed and Kipling stirred uncomfortably. To ease the strain, Kate turned to him and spoke lightly. “Speaking of cellars—”

  “Ah, yes, our ghost!” Kipling exclaimed with evident relief, and jumped up. “He may not be in evidence tonight, but you can at least see where he lives. Or where he walks,” he corrected himself. “I don’t suppose it is accurate to say that a ghost lives.”

  Caroline gave a horrified gasp. “Ruddy, you can’t be thinking of taking our guests to the cellar, of all places!”

  “Oh, but we want to go,” Kate said quickly, rising.

  “Don’t trouble yourself to get up, my dear.” Kipling patted his wife’s shoulder. “You and John stay here, and we’ll get a candle from the kitchen. I’ll ask the maid to bring dessert and coffee while we’re gone.”

  Aunt Georgie rose with alacrity and picked up the brown shawl that lay on her chair. “I’ll come,” she said. She draped the shawl around her shoulders and smiled up at Kate, who felt like a giant beside the tiny woman. Small as she was, though, her erect carriage gave the impression of strength and self-possession. “Perhaps I was wrong when I said you should find no excitement here, my dear. The notion has just come to me that you might think of writing a story that takes place in our tunnels.”

  “Now, that’s an idea, Kate,” Charles said warmly. “You could set the tale in King George’s day and be sure of smugglers. You might even ask about the village and gather the names
of some of the men who were involved. I’m sure there are many older people who have interesting smugglers’ tales to tell.”

  “If that’s your plot, you should visit the old windmill on Beacon Hill, behind North End House,” Kipling suggested as they left the room and turned into a dark hallway with old-fashioned framed pictures on the wall. “It was often frequented by smugglers, who used the sails to signal boats out in the Channel.”

  “The old windmill!” Aunt Georgie said. “The very thing! Ruddy, you shall put the old mill into one of your poems, and Beryl Bardwell can put it into a story.” She patted Kate’s hand with a chuckle. “No argument, now. As I tell my nephew, those with a gift for writing stories are obliged to do so, in order to relieve those of us with an insatiable need for reading them.” Turning to Kipling, she said, “What story are you working on now, dear?”

  “I’ve begun to revisit the Irish boy I first thought of when we were at Bliss Cottage in Vermont,” Kipling said nonchalantly. “I’ve gone as far as to make him the son of a private in an Irish regiment, born in India and mixed up with native life. I’ve christened him Kim, although I haven’t been able to think of anything for him to do except trek around India having adventures.”

  Aunt Georgie chuckled. “Fashioned after our very own Paddy, I wonder? Well, if you observe the child for very long, you won’t lack for things for your Kim to get up to. But shouldn’t you have a plot of some sort?”

  “What was good enough for Cervantes—” Kipling began, but his aunt cut him off.

  “Don’t Cervantes me,” she said tartly. “I remember your mother remarking once that you couldn’t make a plot to save your soul.” She smiled sweetly at him. “Now, dear, hadn’t you better fetch the candle?”

  A few minutes later, the four of them—Kipling, Charles, Aunt Georgie, and Kate, were making their cautious way down a narrow flight of worm-eaten wooden stairs into a large, irregularly shaped, cavelike cellar carved out of the gray-white chalk on which the house was built. At the foot of the steep stairs, Kipling held the flickering candle over his head, and Kate saw that the walls, which were not at all square or straight, went back a long distance into the gloomy shadows.